


Bitten

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, M/M, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9139954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: In a world of vampires, werewolves and soul mates, Will and Hannibal make some discoveries about each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sugarmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarmouse/gifts).



> This is for [Sugarmouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarmouse/pseuds/Sugarmouse) for the Hannigramholidayexchange2016, who wanted a Hannigram AU with the concept of soul mates. I hope you like this and definitely expect me to get to some of your other requests in future chapters! Happy holidays and so very sorry for the delay. 
> 
> Thanks to [WeConqueratDawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weconqueratdawn/pseuds/weconqueratdawn) for all the editing help and hand holding and talking up that thing called outlines. ;)

The windows were closed, the doors locked and bolted. Will Graham was safe inside his home but he could still feel it. The change. It was coming. The moon buzzed around his skin, snagging at his nails and eyes like an invisible lure. He was nothing but a battered moth to its light, tired from the furious beat of wings.

He glanced around his living room for what felt like the hundredth time. Though he had _changed_ more times than he could count, it never became easier. He could never let his guard down to the monster he would become -- the thing with rending claws and fangs and never-ending _hunger_.

The chains were set on the far wall near the mantle, two for his wrists, two for his ankles. Several dog bowls of raw steak were waiting. Angel and Buddy circled his legs with their tails thumping gently against him -- even his newest dog -- Winston was panting cheerfully and unafraid. Will  wanted to curl up with them in bed, in fetal position, covers tucked to his chin. At least he could keep his dogs with him now, even in his other form they were considered pack. It was a small kindness.

He wanted to forget the last day, two days actually, of Jack Crawford breathing down his neck, “borrowing his imagination.” If skimming his mind with the skill of a freshman undoing a bra strap could really be called that. 

Will’s mind wasn’t a place to skim. It was a place from which any sane person would run. 

Even now the lost, smiling faces of the Minnesota Shrike’s victims hovered behind his eyes, deep inside his skull. He saw Elise Nichols from his nightmare, still floating there in her white nightgown. Will could still taste the terror of her last moments. It settled into him like a hand tight around his throat, a dark oily miasma -- yet he fed from it. Her last emotion sustained him as well as fresh carrion. It was a buzz he didn’t get from the crime scene photos he shared in class -- imprints of violence, fleeting and impersonal. What Jack offered was akin to a drug. He told himself he didn’t want it but he couldn’t deny it made his hated ability _useful_.

Will rubbed his hands against his face, wishing he could scream. 

He knew he would howl soon enough.

X

He was summoned to Jack’s office by one of his aides after his first class.

Jack was occupied, standing next to a man in an expensive tan suit. They were both studying the map that laid out the Minnesota Shrike’s abductions. Somewhere, between all those dots, was the Shrike’s nest.

Jack stood proud, his hands clasped behind his back. The man with him gestured once with his long fingers. Elegant hands. Perhaps a musician. Or a surgeon.

His gaze only flicked briefly to Will as Will took a seat across from the desk, slumping into the chair. He cracked his neck. It still ached from the change. 

The stranger and Jack continued to talk, uninterrupted. They made no gesture to include him. 

He sighed, curiosity getting the better of him as he looked over at them to glare.

He didn’t want to make eye contact with the man yet he couldn’t help but look. He was handsome, with high cheekbones that set off the curve of his mouth and darkly expressive eyes. Hair that was like burnished silver swept his forehead. As if he felt Will’s glance, the stranger looked back at Will. It was like ice sliding down his back. He jerked, clenching his teeth.  

Their eyes had barely met but that was all it took.

_Vampire._

The man gave no reaction to Will’s sudden movement. He refocused on Jack, speaking in a softly accented voice. 

It wasn’t that Will was prejudiced, exactly, there were plenty of vampires at the FBI, Jack Crawford among them, but normally his ability allowed him at least a small impression of them -- the gentle white-noise static aura of the living dead. Sometimes more, if they were fresher. This man gave him nothing, which meant he had to be ancient. Probably older than any vampire Will had met before. The only one he knew that came close was Jack’s soul mate, Bella -- she had been turned in Louisiana before Will’s Great-Grandparents had immigrated to the city. 

“Tell me, how many confessions have there been?”

Jack shrugged. This time he looked at Will, revealing his weariness. The feeling was mutual. 

“Twelve dozen, the last time I checked. None of them had any details until this morning. And then they all had details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, and then Freddy Lounds posted it on Tattlecrime.com.”

“Tasteless,” Will murmured. 

“Do you have trouble with taste?” the stranger asked him, his tone deceptively polite for a blood sucker.

Will thought of the raw steaks he had devoured the night before. Pieces of meat still clung between his teeth even the morning after until he brushed it away in his bathroom, pink froth swirling down the porcelain sink. “My thoughts are often not tasty.”

“Nor mine. No effective barriers.”

Will gulped down his coffee as the man neared to sit next to him. “So I build forts.”

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

The stranger faced him as he sat, raising his own mug. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will made an exasperated sound. He didn’t know who Jack’s colleague was but he was quickly getting on his nerves. This time he actually returned the man’s gaze. 

“Eyes are distracting you see too much, you don’t see enough,” he said, flicking his eyes dismissively from the stranger’s wide mouth to his dark eyes. “And - And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, um, ‘Oh, those whites are really white’, or, ‘He must have just fed’, or, ‘Oh, I bet he’s older than the Declaration of Independence?’ 

The man merely smiled at him, unfazed. 

Will glared at him over the tortoise rim of his glasses. “I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.” 

Jack was pretending to busy himself at the map of victims.

“Jack?” 

“Yes?” Jack returned mildly. 

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind,” the stranger offered, interrupting Will. “Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

Will felt something dark uncoil in his belly. The man knew he was a shapeshifter, of that he was certain, but he seemed to be alluding to something else as well. Not even Jack knew where his empathy came from.  

“Whose profile are you working on?” he demanded. He turned to Jack. “Whose profile is he working on?”

“I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off,” the stranger told him. 

Will tensed, his gaze resolutely on Jack. 

“Please, don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed,” he said. The words pitched low in his throat, nearly a growl. 

“Will,” Jack chastened. 

Will stood up abruptly.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing.”

He stalked out of the room.

X

Will squinted at the body of the young woman artfully impaled on the antlers. He wiped the cold sweat gathering on his forehead with the back of his hand. This was field kabuki. Nothing more, nothing less. And nothing at all like Elise Nichols’ case.

He let both murders wash over him, two different flavors, two separate energies.The pain of this young woman was a meal in and of itself, but what he felt from this new victim’s killer though was not anywhere near as sustaining -- there was no anger or passion as typical at crime scenes. No dark mercy here, as he had felt with the Minnesota Shrike’s lone apology. 

No. This violence felt as cool as snowflakes landing on a child’s tongue. Icy indifference towards a pig was not a motive. There was hardly any emotion for Will to sustain himself on. This woman’s death was functional … a performance. 

And Elsie Nichols was tucked into the bed. 

Will stared at the horrible tableau. An image emerged in his head, a shadowy figure taking form. Strong hands, kind eyes. That of a father. The words fell meaningless from his lips.

“He has a daughter. Same age as the other girls. Same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight. She’s an only child. She’s leaving home. He can’t stand the thought of losing her. She’s his Golden Ticket.”

The grief of the Shrike suddenly felt like a gaping wound in his chest.

“What about the Copy Cat?” Jack yelled.

Will paused, looking again at the dead woman. The taste of snow on his tongue again. Strange. It almost felt _pure_. 

“An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is hard to catch,” Will said. “There’s no traceable motive. There’ll be no patterns. He may never kill like this again.” 

As he turned to leave, a sudden thought struck him. Why don’t you have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile,” he called back to Jack. “You seem to be impressed with his opinion.”

X 

He was running. Faster and faster.

Breath heaved out of him cracks of thunder. Trees whipped furious against his arms and his legs.

Suddenly it cleared, a meadow taking shape in the mist. His heels skidded against the dirt when he saw him.

The wolf. A dark creature with matted, filthy fur, its long haunches raised in warning. It was sickly thin, ribs protruding. It was hungry. 

It was his self.

X

A knock woke him from his nightmares. Half-asleep, Will drifted from the bed to the front door, opening it without thinking.

Hannibal Lecter. Cheerful and well dressed. Sated. More than likely from their last encounter. Vampires often liked to flaunt their superiority over mere mortals. Will had seen it time and time again in his line of work. 

“Good morning, Will. May I come in?” the doctor said smoothly. He was carrying food with him, though Will couldn’t see it, the scent was enough to make his stomach grumble. Breakfast, he supposed, supposedly a sign of good will. 

Will stared beyond Hannibal, into the dirty, sun-streaked parking lot of his budget hotel. He contemplated saying no, on principle. But it would only make him look childish when Hannibal told Jack -- more of a flight risk than he was already widely regarded. 

Besides he had done his research on the vampire, enough to assuage most of his fears and paranoia. Dr. Hannibal Lecter had moved to Baltimore sometime in the early 1900s from France, and had remained there, even after his medical expertise extended to psychiatry. More recently, he was a leading figure in Baltimore high society, where he was known for attending operas and hosting lavish dinners. Via Google, Will had seen dozens and dozens of photos of him with wealthy politicians and artists over the years, humans and supernatural citizens alike.  

Yet he still couldn’t tell how old the vampire was. That bugged him.  

“Where’s Crawford?”

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.” Hannibal glanced over Will’s shoulder, taking in his meager hotel room, the unmade bed. “May I come in?”

Will turned away, leaving Hannibal to close the door behind them. He went to the nightstand to down two aspirin dry. He couldn’t feel any emotion at all from Hannibal, couldn’t even imagine his thoughts with his back to him. 

Only when Will turned did something strange flicker in Hannibal’s eyes as his gaze traveled up his bare legs to his sweat-damp shirt. The tee had nearly gone transparent. Will flushed, crossing his arms over his chest and excused himself. He went into the bathroom with a clean pair of sweats and new undershirt.

When he emerged, he saw that Hannibal had made two places on the small table by the window that looked out over the parking lot. He heaped a pile of eggs onto Will’s plate as Will sat down. 

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means if I do eat I end up preparing most meals myself,” Hannibal told him. 

“Do you eat with people a lot, Doctor?” Will asked. “Don’t you think it ruins their appetites?”  

“Most of my guests find themselves too distracted to complain.” 

Will snorted. Hannibal took his own seat across the table, helping himself to a much smaller portion of the food he had made. 

“So we have a little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

Will finally gave in, taking a generous bite of the fluffy eggs. It tasted as heavenly as it smelled. The appreciative noise he made was completely involuntary. “Mm, it’s delicious. Thank you.”

Hannibal smiled at him, pleasantly surprised by Will’s praise. “My pleasure.”

As if to make Will more comfortable, he also took a bite of his own food. Will knew Hannibal didn’t need to eat. If he had been anyone else other than his BAU appointed keeper, Will would have told him not to bother.

Hannibal seemed to guess what he was thinking.

“I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly,” Hannibal said. 

Will hazarded a glance at him. Hannibal’s expression was curious, his interest plain. It was more than Will was used to with psychologists -- even the ones like Alana Bloom who feigned detachment to disguise their rather self-serving concerns. 

Hannibal was something else -- something Will didn’t have a name for. He was... a tabula rasa. Will wasn’t sure if that was relieving or frightening. 

“Just keep it professional,” he muttered. “You’re a blood sucker, I’m a werewolf.” He used the rudest terms he could think of to describe their other natures. 

“Shall we finally discuss that giant elephant in the room?” Hannibal asked mildly. “The correct term is undead.”

“Just keep your distance.”

“Or we could socialize, like adults, despite our natures. God forbid we become friendly.”

“I don’t find you that interesting,” Will lied. 

Hannibal took the insult in stride. “You will.”

Will watched as Hannibal took another small, measured bite of his food. Will’s own plate was almost completely empty.

“Jack tells me you have a knack for the monsters,” Hannibal said, after a brief pause. 

Will shrugged. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“Ah, yes,” Hannibal said, raising one brow. “But though our natures can make us cruel, you are probably more human than many of the -- individuals you profile. What did you make of the young woman in the field? Jack mentioned that you had an adverse reaction.” 

Will rolled his eyes. “I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field. And Jack didn’t like it. Maybe because it means more paperwork. Above my paygrade. Though there were striking similarities to the victim and Elise Nichols, it was a different actor. The Shrike doesn’t kill _like that_.”

 _It wouldn’t have felt the way it did either._ Like ice thrumming through his veins. But he couldn’t say that, to no one, especially not Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal leaned forward.  

“The devil is in the details. What didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field that the Shrike did not? What gave it away?”

“Everything,” Will said. He rubbed absently against his mouth, the grains of his stubble rough against his hand. “It’s like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive. That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped.”

“The mathematics of human behaviour -- all those ugly variables. Some bad math with this Shrike fellow, huh? Are you reconstructing his fantasies?” 

Will chuckled at that. He wasn’t so much reconstructing his fantasies as being forced into them. There was no true process to share with doctor. He had been nothing more than an unwilling participant in Elise Nichols’ bedroom as the Shrike’s feelings bled into his -- loss and wanting, crippling fear. So much fear. Each twisted emotion feeding him. 

“What kind of problems does he have?” Hannibal asked, drawing Will’s attention back to him.

Will blinked. He remembered that they were talking about the Shrike. 

“Uh, he has a few.”

“You ever have any problems, Will?”

Will twitched. He gave Hannibal a look of warning. “No.”

“Of course you don’t,” Hannibal said easily. “You and I are just alike, problem-free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about. You know, Will? I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest China, used for only special guests.”

Will laughed at the idea of himself as fragile glass, he couldn’t help it. His glance bounced between Hannibal’s white throat and his gleaming cufflinks.

“How do you see me?” he asked. 

Hannibal considered him carefully. Will felt as under dressed as he had when Hannibal had first arrived at his hotel room.

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.” 

Will sat back in his chair, speechless. 

“Finish your breakfast,” Hannibal said genially. 

The alpha wolf in Will chafed at the command but it turned out the food was too good to complain.

X

The home was unobtrusive, friendly and cozy amongst aesthetically similar homes. Neat little boxes, all in a row.

Will popped another aspirin behind the wheel of the rental car.

When he got out he surveyed the property, felt a loud buzz against the base of his neck. Excitement. His? Or the killer’s? 

Will walked purposefully to the front door, trying his best not to reveal his discomfort. Hannibal lingered behind, he had probably never been to an arrest before. Will was halfway to the door when it suddenly opened.

Garret Jacob Hobbs emerged with a woman that must be his wife, a knife held tight against her neck. Time slowed to a single beat. He saw Garrett’s elbow come up, as if he would slit her throat. Will didn’t stop to think. He lunged forward with his teeth bared. Garret Jacob Hobbs’ eyes went wide in surprise, he brought up his arm to fend off Will’s attack.

His wife fell down to the ground, crawling away from them, as Hobbs managed to get a step between him and Will, slamming the door in Will’s face. 

“Help her!” he yelled to Hannibal, motioning to the bleeding woman on the porch. Hannibal surged forward. Will didn’t wait to see what he did. He couldn’t. 

Time had sped up again.

He barreled into the locked door as hard as he could. Either his shoulder gave or the wood frame did -- it was hard to tell which. He gave it a hard kick, and another, splintering it from the hinges until he could shove himself inside. 

Gun out, Will worked his way from room to room. Streaks of blood across the walls and family portraits marked his way towards the back of the house. 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs? F.B.I.” he yelled.

He could hear a whimper, the sound of hushed voice but no words. 

He moved into the kitchen, freezing at what he saw. 

Hobbs stood behind his daughter, waiting for Will. His knife was now pressed into his daughter’s throat. The girl stared at Will helplessly, fear dilating her sky-blue eyes. 

In one swift motion, Hobbs slashed at the girl’s throat. Will’s heart pumped in time with his gun. 

Pop. Pop. Pop.

He fired into Hobbs’s exposed upper chest, one after another. 

Too late. The girl fell only a second before her father did, her blood arcing the room, wet as summer rain on Will’s face. 

He stood alone, stunned for one long, terrible second.

Then the girl gurgled. Will fell to his knees, crawling to her. She was struggling to breathe, blood seeping out of her gashed windpipe. He brought his hands to her wounds, trying to force enough pressure to hold the bleeding. So much blood.

“See?”

Will startled.

“See?” 

Garrett’s last breath zinged through Will, a sweet caress of black energy. A death of violence and pain. Will absorbed it, taking the dark into himself with a shudder. 

From the ground, the girl made a choked sound and Will looked down at her, his heart lurching with shame. He hadn’t created the evil in her father, but that he thrived on it, was more than he could take. He was going to lose the girl as well. There was nothing he could do to stop the bleeding. 

The scent of ice and mulling spices prickled his nose.

Hannibal knelt beside him. Will automatically looked for signs of a vampire’s blood lust, the dark pupils, and bloodshot whites. But Hannibal’s gaze was calm, collected as any doctor’s when it came to a patient in need. He moved Will’s twitching hands away gently, addressing the girl’s wounds with a sure hand. He lifted her neck into alignment, cupping the back of her head. The girl stopped wheezing almost instantly. Will watched in shock, unable to speak or move as Hannibal worked diligently and efficiently to save her life. 

“This isn’t enough,” Hannibal murmured. “She needs blood.” 

“No, no,” Will said. “You can’t-- “

Hannibal looked up at him, narrowing his eyes. “I won’t change her, Will.” 

Will glanced down at Abigail. He shuddered.

“Do it.” 

Hannibal swiftly bit into his own wrist. The scent was rich, intoxicating, even to Will. Hannibal dangled his mangled flesh over the girl’s lips. Dark blood oozed from his veins like oil. The life blood of the undead. At first the girl coughed but then her lips cracked open, wider and wider until Hannibal deemed she had enough. He pulled his wrist away, his face pale. 

The girl’s glassy eyes rose to Will’s own. He couldn’t look away, feeding helplessly on the emotions -- the terror and horror -- even though he could feel Hannibal’s watching him, his gaze boring into his soul.

X

Reflective light flashed across his pupils, dizzying. He looked down blankly at his blood-splattered hands and jeans.

All sound was dulled except for the hummingbird flutter of his circulatory system -- whirring away. It hummed in his ears, over the sounds of the paramedics and police. There was a circus of ambulances, paramedics, police cars and officers pulled up in front of the Hobbs’. Mrs. Hobbs was already en route to the hospital, critical condition but still better off than her daughter. 

Will watched as the paramedics hauled Abigail Hobbs into the back of the ambulance. She was still in shock and needed a blood transfusion. What Hannibal had given her was only enough to stop the bleeding and keep her body from shutting down. 

Hannibal was still with her, even now, holding her hand and crawling in beside her as a paramedic pulled the doors shut.

X

After Will gave his report to Jack, stuttering and confused as it was, he headed to the hospital where he was told they took Abigail Hobbs.

He never liked hospitals, especially after his stint as a beat cop. That was when he had been bitten, barely a year into his position. He trudged forward, ignoring the curious stares of hospital staff and patients alike. He was still wearing the badge. At least it was good for something. The pale, sterile hallways made his shoulder ache. He touched the curve of his shoulder, the ringed scar of teeth warm against his hand. 

Abigail was asleep in her room. The machine hooked to her IV beeped as she breathed. He could smell the antiseptics they had used, the bouquet of dried sweat and blood on her face and hair. She seemed even younger inside the hospital bed. Her throat was bandaged up to her chin. 

Hannibal sat in a chair beside her, his eyes closed. His hand rested light on Abigail’s. Will studied his face. Some of his color had returned. Which meant he fed.

Will licked his lips. 

He knew better than to assume Hannibal was asleep. Better to get that out of the way. 

“I’m glad she’s going to be okay,” he said softly. Hannibal’s gold eyelashes fluttered. Will looked away resolutely, focusing on a spot just beyond Abigail’s head.

“I’m glad you were there,” he added. 

“I suppose we make a good team for two men with a strictly professional relationship,” Hannibal said, his voice husky from disuse. 

Will laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess you can say that.”  

Something in his chest lightened when Hannibal returned his smile.

X

Will flicked the lights on.

His eyes adjusted almost instantly, shadows blurring to rows and rows of faces, some leaning forward in their seats, others just trying to stay awake. He dismissed his class in a clipped, monotone voice, one that encouraged no one to linger any longer than they had to. 

As his trainees left, Will busied himself gathering papers. Slowly the trainees’ dim interest faded, replaced with the scent of clustering violets and jasmine. Concern. Almost sibling like. Will spotted Alana Bloom out of the corner of his eye. They had talked a few times in the staff lounge during her guest lectures. Will had liked her, despite the fact vast majority of her emotions towards him hovered between worried and confused.

“Hi,” he said, when she made it over by his desk.

She gave him a small smile. “How are you, Will?”

He shrugged, deciding to be honest. “I have no idea.”

“That may change. I didn't want you to be ambushed --”

Will’s eyebrows rose. “Is this an ambush?”

“Ambush is later. Immediately later, soon to now. When Jack arrives consider yourself ambushed.”

Will looked over her shoulder as Jack Crawford came into the class, navigating confidently past the last of the trainees. His bulky shoulders were set in a determined line. His aura was faint but powerful, as a vampire of his status should be. He wasn’t particularly old but his strength of will had not dimmed by death. 

“Here's Jack,” he said. 

“How was class?” Jack asked, by way of greeting. 

Will shoved his laptop into his bag. “They applauded. It was inappropriate.” 

Jack’s lips quirked. “Review board begs to differ. You’re up for a commendation and they okayed active return to the field.”

Will blinked. Jack was serious.  

“Question is,” Alana interrupted. “Do you want to go back in the field?”

“I want you to go back in the field, but I told the Board I'm recommending a psych evaluation,” Jack cut in. 

Will glanced at Alana, who gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“Are we starting now?”

“Session wouldn't be with me,” she clarified hastily.

“Hannibal Lecter might be a better fit,” Jack said. “Your relationship's not as personal. But if you'd be more comfortable with Dr. Bloom--” 

_Not as personal_. He remembered Hannibal’s hands on his, strangely gentle even as he moved him out of the way to cover Abigail’s bleeding throat. Whatever Will felt towards Hannibal, he knew without a doubt the vampire had saved Abigail’s life. 

“I’m not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head,” Will said.

“You've never killed someone before, Will. It's a deadly force encounter. It's a lot to digest,” Alana said.

“How would you know?” Will asked, more edge slipping into his voice than he intended. “I used to work homicide and I eat raw meat once a month. I've got a good metabolism.”

Alana wrinkled her nose. 

“Reason you ‘used to’ work homicide is you couldn't stomach pulling the trigger, even when you were attacked. You just pulled the trigger ten times,” Jack said. 

Will stopped in front of the doors opening to the hall. 

“So psych eval's not a formality?” 

“No, it's so I can sleep at night,” Jack said. “I asked you to get close to Hobbs and I need to know you didn't get too close. How many times have you spent the night in Abigail Hobbs' hospital room?”

“Dr. Lecter was there too. Maybe he needs to give himself a psych eval.” 

“Will,” Jack said. The small bit of his energy Will could see darkened ever so slightly in his displeasure. 

“Therapy doesn't work on me,” Will said. 

“'Cause you won't let it,” Jack insisted. He took a step closer, chin raised. The display of domination was not lost on Will. 

He snorted. “'Cause I know all the tricks.”

“Perhaps you need to un-learn some tricks.”

Will bristled. “So you can teach an old dog new ones? It doesn’t work like that. _I_ don’t work like that.” 

“I don’t think that’s what Jack means,” Alana said softly. “Why not have a conversation with Hannibal. He was there. He knows what you went through.”

Will didn’t reply. It wasn’t worth it. Not with the two of them teaming up on him.  

“I need my beauty sleep, Will,” Jack called after him.

“Don’t they have coffins for that?” he called back.  

X

The clock chimed.

Just like that, the door opened, Hannibal Lecter standing before him. Will was reminded of a medieval clock, one with figures that appeared at different hours -- easing back into their places until their time of the day returned. 

“Good evening, Will. Please come in,” Hannibal said. He held the door to his office wide open.

Will rose from his chair to follow him inside, looking around as he did. Hannibal’s office was ageless, a mix of styles young and old. It struck Will as almost cathedral like -- a large room with higher ceilings and more book shelves than he could count. A variety of artifacts and memorabilia surrounded him, everything tasteful and elegant -- from the framed European style artwork to the lavish Persian rugs. The effect was impressive but also intimidating, a silent warning to look but not touch. 

His feet carried him up to the lofts, to the books. He didn’t ask for permission. He was curious about what a man like Hannibal would read. Would it be mostly revolved around his professional pursuits? Sure enough, there were several early editions of various versions of The Oxford Textbook of Medicine along with several medical books in Chinese and Greek. Will discovered this by flipping through the aging pages, shutting them just as quickly when he saw the detailed diagrams of bloated corpses in one text and what appeared to be step-by-step instructions for applying leeches for bloodletting in another. 

Hannibal’s footsteps echoed behind him in the still quiet. He turned to watch the vampire’s approach. Still, he kept a friendly space between them. 

There was a cream colored paper in his hand. It smelled of rose. 

“What's that?” 

“Your psychological evaluation. You're totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.”

Will frowned from his perch. 

“Did you just rubber stamp me?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answered, unashamed. “Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn't break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by rules and paperwork.”

Will glanced away from Hannibal, looking again at the rows of books until the simple titles, both engraved and embossed, cleared his head.  Apparently not all of what Hannibal read was professional. He spotted Pride and Prejudice as well as Interview with A Vampire. Funny. 

“Jack thinks I need therapy,” Will said.

“I'm not sure therapy will work on you. Being _other_ as well as having the unique ability to steal into other minds has taught you how to fortify your own.”

“That's what I said.”

Hannibal acknowledged that with a small nod of agreement. If he saw Will’s … character’s flaws, as they were, he made no appearance of passing judgement. 

“What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there,” Hannibal said. 

Will paused. 

“Last time he sent me into a dark place I brought something back.”

“A surrogate daughter?”

Surprised, Will glanced down at Hannibal but he had already turned away. Will’s response to the truth was apparently not his focus.   

“You saved Abigail Hobbs' life as well as her mother’s. It comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders.” 

“You were there. You saved her life, too. You _fed_ her. Do you feel obligated?”

“Yes. I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I've fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs, yet I believe she will be fine, in time, along with her mother. Where that leaves us, I am not entirely sure.”

Will snorted. “Is this therapy? Or a support group?” 

“It's whatever you need it to be.”

Will shook his head, unable to speak. He gripped the railings of the loft tight, letting the smooth painted wood hold his weight. Gradually, the circulation to his fingers went numb.

Hannibal’s voice came to him, a quiet entreaty that whispered along his consciousness, neither forceful nor particularly concerned.  

“Will, the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself and not the worst of someone else,” Hannibal said. 

Will wanted to tell him the truth. The devastating urge lasted barely a second. It was a truth he couldn’t even tell his father. It was likely what his mother had run from. 

His throat closed on the words -- psychic parasitism. He strangled it down. 

X

Will dug the shovel into the thick black dirt. He took only a step away from the spot, watching the grains fall back to the earth. All he needed was a shallow grave.

The naked man before him was insignificant now, weak and pale, but he would make him greater. Immortal as the forest. 

He shoved the oxygen tube into the man’s nose. Then came the duct-tape for his eyes and mouth. Finally, he tethered each tubes to a rebar, fixing the catheter in place, as he had done for all the others in his garden of souls. 

_I choose this man. I do not bind his arm or legs as I bury him in a shallow grave. He is alive but will never be conscious again._

Next Will shoveled a load of compost over the man. He covered his face and body loosely. He needed just a little bit more dirt to finish the job. 

_He won't know he's dying. I don't need him to. He’s part of something far larger now. A network. A hive. This is my design._

Garret Jacob Hobbs was waiting for him in the shallow grave when he turned. The corpse’s eyes were wide, milky and unseeing but somehow he recognized Will. The corpse reached for him. 

Will’s senses returned to him in a violent rush. He was himself again -- horror threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes opened.

X

His appointment with Dr. Lecter couldn't come soon enough.

When Hannibal let him in, Will dropped the high-quality letterhead bearing his name and address, along with Will’s psych eval, onto his desk, abrupt and to the point.

“This may have been premature.”

“Let me be the judge of that. What did you see?” Hannibal asked. “Out in the field?”

Will twitched. So he had spoken to Jack. Of course he had.

He did not trust himself to look into Hannibal’s eyes. He thought backwards, from Hobbs to the garden of bodies. 

The shallow grave stretched before him. Empty, then filled.

“I saw Hobbs.”

“An association?”

“A hallucination. I saw him lying there... in someone else's grave.”

“Did you tell Jack what you saw?”

“No.”

“It's stress,” Hannibal said plainly. “Not worth reporting. The mechanism that distinguishes conscious perceptions from internal perceptions misfired. There are worse things. You displaced the victim of another killer's crime with what could arguably be considered your victim.”

“I don't consider Hobbs my victim.”

“What do you consider him?”

Will saw the man in his mind, his last seconds spent bleeding out on the floor of his kitchen, a shell of what he was. What he could be.

“Dead.”

“Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing now that you've done it yourself?”

Will gave a small nod. 

Hannibal sighed, the sound drifting heavily into the silence between them. “I can help you, Will. Let me help you.”

Will looked at him for a long beat. “How?”

“Let’s start with the bodies you saw today. The arms. Why did he leave them exposed? To hold their hands? Feel the life leaving their body?” Hannibal asked. 

Will shook his head. “Too esoteric for someone who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line. He's more practical.”

“He was cultivating them?”

“He was keeping them alive,” Will granted. “Feeding them fluids intravenously.”

“Your farmer let his crops die, save for the one that didn't.”

“The one that didn't died on the way to the hospital. -- They weren't crops. They were the fertilizer. The bodies were covered in fungus. Ever heard of anything like that?”

Hannibal smiled. “Centuries ago there were vampires who would infuse their victims with flavors. Made them taste sweeter.”

“No, he’s not eating them,” Will said, refusing to let his thoughts go to Hannibal and feeding. “There’s too much -- intact.” 

“Mycelium kill forests over and over, building deeper soil to grow larger and larger trees.”

“If it were just about the soil, why bother keeping the victims alive?”

“The structure of a fungus mirrors that of the human brain. An intricate web of connections.”

Will considered that.

“Maybe he admires their ability to connect the way most human minds can't.” 

“Yours can.”

Will chuckled, a short, clipped sound. “Not physically. Not with reciprocity.”

“If you had a soul mate, perhaps it would.”

Will froze. 

“Is that what your Farmer is looking for?” Hannibal mused. “Some sort of connection.”

“You think he’s creating -- soul mates?”

“Sometimes one forces a connection when there is none to be found.”

“That... “ Will swallowed. “You could be onto something there, doctor.” 

Hannibal relaxed back into his chair, watching Will think. He made no move to hurry Will but when he glanced down at his watch he knew his time was well past up.

“Shit,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Sorry for keeping you.”

Hannibal gave him an odd look. “It’s no trouble. Let me get your coat.”

When Hannibal returned with his jacket, he did not hand it to Will as normal. This time he held it out in front of him. 

“You aren’t taking care of yourself, Will,” he said. He fixed Will with a stern expression, one that forbade argument of any kind. 

Will had no choice but to turn around, to let Hannibal dress him. Hannibal hovered at his back, close enough to slip his arms into the sleeves. Will imagined he could feel the coolness of Hannibal through his clothes, though his touch was fleeting. It was only him that felt too warm. 

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and Hannibal’s scent. He let both fill him -- calming him. 

“Did you just smell me?”

His heart fluttered. 

“I -- yes,” Will admitted. He faced Hannibal. “Sorry. That was, er rude, wasn’t it.” 

“It’s natural to wonder. I confess I am curious as well. I have always thought most vampires had very little scent. What do I smell like to you?”

Will huffed out a small laugh, scratching behind one ear. “You do. It’s faint but -- winter. Dead of winter. Heavy snow layered in birch trees so deep you’ll be blanketed in white if you breathe the wrong way. And um, a trace of smoke from a little cabin in the distance.”   

Hannibal tensed, almost imperceptibly. His face stilled as though it was carved in ice.

“I see.” 

Hannibal busied with his own coat, a soft-looking peacoat that grazed the back of his calves. He buttoned it up in quick little twitches of his fingers, all the way up to his neck. Will had the distinct feeling that he was being dismissed. Worse, that he had offended Hannibal and he didn’t know what to say or do to remedy that. His face still felt uncomfortably warm, his tongue thoughtlessly twisted. 

“Shall I walk you to your car?” Hannibal asked, his voice as indifferent as it would’ve been as if he had asked Will about the weather.

Will gave a small nod. He kept pace with Hannibal until they separated to their cars, muttering a quick goodbye. 

He berated himself all the way home to Wolf Trap though he still had no idea what he had done wrong.

X

He couldn’t feel anything this time. No pain, or anger or frustration.

It was detective work that led him to Eldon Stammets’ car, an older sedan parked dutifully in a distant corner of the parking lot. Stammets’ liked to be neat. His parking was no less efficient. 

Will yelled for Jack. He swung his crowbar down, smashing in the driver side window of Stammet’s car. He reached past the broken glass to pop the trunk. 

Jack was waiting behind him as it was lifted. Fresh soil, thick and luscious. The stench underneath was what prickled his nose. Will, Jack and Zeller all recoiled nearly at the same moment, as the smell released from the compartment. Will recovered first. 

He shoveled arms-full of dirt away, onto the black pavement. 

“She's in here!”

An unconscious, naked woman was buried alive, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. 

“E.M.T.s now!” Jack yelled.

Will backed away from the trunk as a pair of E.M.T.s moved in. Within minutes, the unconscious woman was unpacked and loaded into the back of an ambulance by the paramedics. 

“We know his name. We know where he lives. We have his car. We'll have him within 24 hours,” Jack said grimly. 

Jimmy Price approached them nervously. 

“Jack. We just checked browser history at Stammets' work station.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“No. And yes. But mostly no,” Jimmy said, biting his lip. 

Jack sighed heavily, looking over to Will. Will didn’t bother trying to hide his exhaustion.

“You’re not tapping out yet Agent Graham,” Jack said shortly. “C’mon.”  

Will did, trudging behind Jack and Jimmy as they went back into the drugstore. The overhead lights seemed suddenly too bright. Will wanted to find a bathroom, wash the scent of human rot from his hands and face but he knew Jack wasn't about to give him anything resembling space. Not when his prey was near.

Zeller and Katz were waiting in what was presumably Stammets’ office. Katz looked vaguely amused, while Zeller scowled openly at Will. He was human and his distaste was rather easy for Will to read, though Zee had never truly bothered trying to hide his resentment of Will.

Jack was all business. He went immediately to the tidy desk and tugged the screen of the desktop forward so it faced them.

Will recognized the loud, red website instantly. TattleCrime. The browser was already pulled up full screen, to a photograph of Will standing in Stammets’ forest of decomposing bodies. His head was bowed low, as if he was praying over the victims, or plotting over them, if you were the particular brand of paranoid reader Freddie Lounds’ tactics tended to attract.

The article headline read “TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE.” 

Zeller, Price and Katz gathered around the monitor with Jack. Katz began to read.

“The FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re head-hunting them, too, offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind to catch an--”

She glanced at Will sympathetically. “She goes into a lot of detail.”

“Son of a bitch. Call it in Price. Katz, we need to know where Lounds is now. I can't have her mucking up my investigation!” Jack bellowed.

Will barely noticed the others as they left the room, his attention was on Zeller, the darkness surrounding him. 

“Or you could just tell Jack the truth,” Will said.

Zeller jerked, glaring at Will.

“What did you say?”

Will forgot to be careful. 

“I said you're responsible for this -- this garbage,” he said, waving his hand at the computer screen. “Tell Freddie Lounds she can always ask for an exclusive from me next time, instead of sleeping with you.”

Zeller straightened and took a step forward, until he was almost eye to eye with Will.

“What are you, jealous?”

Will laughed, low and soft. “What are you? Delusional?”

Zeller flinched. When he pushed towards the door, he shoved Will with his shoulder -- hard. It was enough to knock Will back a step.

“Stay away from me freak,” Zeller muttered. 

He tensed but Zeller kept going, out of Stammets’ office and back out through the rows of cold relief pill bottles and packaged pink and blue baby thermometers. Will listened until Zeller’s footfalls dimmed, until everything grew quiet, until the hum of the computer was the only sound left. In the still, his beast stirred. 

Will licked his lips and tasted decay.

X 

Will punched the button that would take him to Abigail’s floor. He was tired and knew he should have driven home instead of visiting Abigail. The edge from his confrontation with Zeller still felt too close. But he couldn't go to Wolf Trap, not when this might be his last chance to visit Abigail. He should've gotten her flowers. He should've called Hannibal.

Too late now.

During his last visit to Johns Hopkins, he was told that Abigail’s mother was showing more and more signs of improvement and they were considering moving her closer to Abigail’s room in the ICU. Will wasn't sure how much he would visit after that. He didn't think Mrs. Hobbs would appreciate seeing her husband's killer -- even if had Will saved her life. 

His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“Will-- damn it! You and Abigail are in trouble! We think the killer has you on his cultivate list. Where are you?” Jack demanded on the other line.

Will jammed his cell phone into his pocket and ran to the stairwell. Before the door slammed behind him he was up one flight of stairs. He took each step two at a time until he was running again, in the hall toward Abigail's room, barely managing to navigate past patients and nurses. 

At Abigail's room, he skidded to a stop, halting outside the door. He took his gun from its holster, he rounded the corner ready to fire but the room was empty. Abigail’s bed, gone. 

He backed into the hallway, grabbing the elbow of a passing nurse.

“Where is Abigail Hobbs?”

The nurse frowned. “They took her for tests.”

“Who took her?” he demanded. The nurse was stammering. “Who took her?” 

When she didn’t respond fast enough, he ran back towards the stairs, keeping his gun low and aimed at the tiled floor. 

At ground floor, he could feel it. A change in the air, something no one else could feel other than him. Darkness to devour. Eldon Stammets’ mind opening like a vein, an endless litany of spores and connections spilling out for Will to tap.

He rounded the corner. Will saw him first. The older, balding man calmly pushing the gurney carrying Abigail Hobbs. Will didn’t hesitate.

He raised his gun and fired. 

Eldon Stammets was hit in the shoulder, violently propelled backwards. 

Will got in front of him, pulling Abigail's gurney into the hall and away from him. He rounded back, taking in the dazed expression in Eldon’s beady eyes. He fed off the wounded man’s fear, channeled it into rage.

“What were you going to do with her?” he asked, his gun still raised.

“We evolved from mycelium. Only reintroducing her to the concept.”

“By burying her alive?” 

“Opisthokontum. A super kingdom of animalia and fungi together. All souls joined. As they should be. That journalist said you understood me.”

“I don't.”

“You would have,” Eldon promised fervently, pressing his hand into his own wound. The blood from kept coming, seeping out past his pale fingertips. He would be unconscious in minutes. 

“Walk into a field of mycelium, they know you're there,” he muttered. “Their spores reach for you when you pass by. I know who you're reaching for. You should have let me plant her. You would have found her in a field where she could finally reach back.” 

“You don’t know who I’m reaching for. You don’t know anything,” Will said. 

The feverish light in Eldon’s eyes dimmed. He moaned nonsensically to himself. 

Will stared at Eldon for a long moment as the clamor of people running towards him grew louder and louder.

Then everything was in movement, people yelling, hospital staff and police processing Stammets and checking on Abigail. Will walked over the pool of blood reaching for his feet, where he could stand with his back up against the wall. Jack Crawford had arrived, alongside several other agents.

That was when all hell broke loose. 

An agent behind Jack growled as they neared Will, his fangs lengthening. The sound made the small hairs on Will’s nape stand.

In slow motion, the man charged towards Will… but his black eyes were trained on Eldon. The agent was a vampire, newly turned. Will could feel it just as he could feel the scent of blood was too much for him. 

“Morris!” Jack yelled. 

Will grabbed him in mid-air, locking his arm around his neck. Morris snarled, snapping his fangs at Will. On the ground, Eldon whimpered and for a second, Will was tempted to just, let go.

“I wouldn't,” Will growled, mostly to himself, as he tightened his grip on the fledgling’s throat until Jack yanked the agent away by his collar.

“I got this,” he said, glaring at the young vampire. Color was slowly returning to his cheeks. He blinked slowly at Jack, recognizing the master vampire through the fog of hunger. 

“Agent Crawford…”

“Take yourself outside, son,” Jack barked. “Now. We will talk later.”

The agent left the hall quickly, Jack and Will watching every step he took until he was out of sight. 

Jack shared a glance of displeasure with Will before he looked down at Stammets. A nurse stood behind him, waiting for Jack to let her approach. Still, Jack took his time, surveying Stammets’ wound coldly. The flowing blood from his shoulder didn't even cause him to flinch, so taut was his control. 

“What do we have here?” Jack asked, his voice hard. 

Stammets blinked up at him, unseeing. “The spores, survive, even at the end,” Stammets muttered. “You’ll see.”

“Shut up,” Jack said. 

With a wave of his hand, Jack allowed the nurse, and a doctor now joining her, in to make sure Stammets was stable before cuffing him. He gave Will a nod as he escorted the police outside of the hospital. 

In the chaos, some misguided hospital staff had brought Mrs. Hobbs down. At least someone had the sense to pull Abigail’s gurney out of the way of officers. Mrs. Hobbs leaned over her walker as she sobbed over Abigail’s gurney. On her throat was a long white bandage, a matching twin to her daughter’s. 

“My baby,” she said. “Oh, my poor baby.”

Only when the nurses helped the surviving Hobbs back to their rooms did Will leave.

X

Sleep came after his dogs were walked through the fields around his house, whiskey settling warm in his belly.

Each sip had been an attempt to forget what Eldon Stammets had tried to give him. Endless golden circuits spiraling through the earth, carrying energy. Acceptance. 

Love.

And finally, death. 

Stammets had been wrong about who Will was reaching for but he hadn’t been wrong that Will was searching. 

He woke sometime before dawn. His dreams drifted away as he cleared his eyes. The windows only showed the ink dark waiting outside. But there was a noise, a snuffing noise outside his front door. His pack didn’t wake or stir in their beds. Even when long nails scraped against his door, over and over, making a strange music.

Let me in, his beast said.

Will’s teeth clenched. He pulled the sheets around his body as tight as a straitjacket. Not even a pillow could block the sound.

X 

“You seem cagey today,” Hannibal said. He steepled his hands over his desk. “Is there something on your mind? The Farmer or Hobbs perhaps?”

“Neither.” 

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose in two elegant arches. He stroked his fingers against the edge of his desk, almost listlessly. Will was struck by the grace of the motion. Motion was simple. His life was not. 

“I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.”

“A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve,” Hannibal granted. “You fail, there's a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?” 

“I thought you’re supposed to be my paddle.”

“I am,” he said. “I want to help you.”

When Will didn’t reply, Hannibal took a new approach. 

“It wasn't the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it? Did you feel bad because killing him felt better than you imagined? It’s not abnormal Will, not for vampires or werewolves or even humans.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about Hobbs.” 

“If you did, I would listen. Vampires understand violence better than most.”

“How many people have you killed, Dr. Lecter?” Will retorted. 

“Hundreds,” Hannibal said. He didn’t even blink. “How does that make you feel?”

“Curious.”

Hannibal gave a ghost of a smile. “When I was a young vampire, I didn’t care what kind of life I took. I believed I only existed to consume. For many years I allowed that to rule me, I took lives and made it my sole pleasure. In the faces of those I killed, I saw nothing but pigs for the slaughter. ” 

Will closed his eyes. He could almost see Hannibal in the long corridors of his mind, lips stained red, drinking from the young and the old, the rich and the poor. As unforgiving as a plague from God. Righteous as an avenging angel. Will's own beast sniffed the air with interest yet Hannibal's rage filled him in imagination only. 

“Why did you stop? It wasn’t the Vampire Amnesty Act of 1905, I bet.”

Hannibal chuckled. “My decision was made many centuries before and for nothing so noble, I'm afraid. I suppose you could say I became bored. I was little more than a savage, eating whoever I found. One evening as I wandered the filthy alleys of Sicily, I heard beautiful music soaring from the Cappella Palatina. I wanted to listen. I crouched under the stained glass on the western wing and let it fill me -- different than life blood but no less sustaining. Soon after, a strange urge drove me back to my familial home in Lithuania. I wasn't even sure I would be able to enter it but I found I still could.”

“What did--”

“We’re here to discuss you, Will,” Hannibal reminded him. 

Will frowned. “What do you want to know? How I became a werewolf? It’s not a page turner.”

“No,” Hannibal said. “I want to know what you saw when you shot Eldon Stammets.” 

Will sagged in his seat. The memory was still fresh, his gun firing, Eldon Stammets’ stunted shock as blood blossomed on his shoulder. He remembered the disjointed sounds -- people yelling, Mrs. Hobbs loud sobs, Jack’s authoritative commands to the young agent. Most of all, he remembered what Stammets wanted to give him. 

“I didn't see Hobbs when I shot him if that’s what you’re after. But -- but there was a moment of clarity.”

“What became clear?”

“That I was alone.”

Hannibal paused. He straightened out the edge of papers he had stacked on his desk.

“Then it's not Hobbs' ghost that's haunting you, is it?”

“No, I guess not.”

“It’s your own nature that waits. The inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good. It’s no longer an idea, is it?”

“Killing Hobbs was different. I felt just.”

“Which is why you're here. To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail not killing her dad.”

“I didn't feel a sprig of zest when I shot Eldon Stammets.”

“You didn't kill Eldon Stammets.”

“I thought about killing him though. I'm still not entirely sure that wasn't my intention pulling the trigger.”

“If your intention was to kill him, it's because you understand why he did the things he did. You knew Jack nor anyone else would punish you for the killing blow,” Hannibal said. He rose from his desk, stepping cautiously towards Will. “It's beautiful in it's own way. Giving voice to the unmentionable.”

“No,” Will said. “What’s in my head -- it’s not anything. Definitely not beautiful. Not for you or anyone else.”

Hannibal looked as if he would disagree. 

And Will wanted him to. Wanted what they had probably been dancing around since they had met. Well, Hannibal had danced, Will fumbled. 

“Will.”

Hannibal touched his chin, tilting his head up. A small sound escaped his throat. Longing darkened Hannibal’s eyes but the dark Will saw wasn’t frightening -- it was familiar as the woods outside his home in the night. A shallow grave he wanted to climb into. 

Hannibal traced the curve of his mouth with his thumb, slowly. Like an artist making the finest brush stroke.

He didn’t feel delicate. Not with Hannibal standing before him -- their scents mingled like earth and ice. 

Will’s thoughts jumbled incoherent, one loud, continuous noise. Did Hannibal have sex with his blood donors? It was a common practice among the undead. Blood and sex, the ultimate high. _Biting._ Will banished the idea as soon as it occurred to him. Indecent. But something of it remained in Will’s stomach, knotted and unsettling. His beast wanted to know what Hannibal tasted like.  

“Will --” Hannibal breathed. “It’s rare that someone surprises me --” 

“No.”

Everything went still. 

“I can’t,” Will said. He turned his head away from Hannibal, swallowing uselessly at thin air. “I can’t. Sorry -- um I need to go. My dogs.”

Hannibal let his hand fall from Will’s cheek. Just like that, his mask of indifference was back. 

“Of course,” Hannibal said, his eyes fathomless. He smoothed his hands down his side, tidying invisible wrinkles in his suit. 

Will left as quickly as he could. 

Wolf Trap wasn’t the sanctuary he wanted to run to. His mind wasn’t made up until he saw it nearly an hour later, his car quietly chugging down the gravel driveway. His house the little boat in the distance. 

He let his dogs outside to the meadows, still trying to forget how close he had come to kissing his psychiatrist. A vampire. Not that his body cared. So much for the old myths. 

He knew as well as anyone, the stories were created to feed fear. It was a feeling he knew well. He had built his own life on it. 

On a whim, he brushed his hair and rinsed his face in his bathroom. Over the past few days, personal hygiene hadn't weighed on him as much as his profiling work.

He locked up his house for the night, petting each dog on his way out. The moon was half full, its power over him thin as silk. 

He told himself there was nothing to be afraid of as he drove to Baltimore. Not anymore.

X

Will wasn’t sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t Hannibal with mussed hair, wearing a royal blue -- bathrobe.

Hannibal blinked back at him. His tired, weary expression melted away to one that Will had no name for.

“Good morning Dr. Lecter. I mean, Hannibal. May I come in?”

Hannibal’s lips twitched. “Yes, please.”

He couldn’t help but look around. Hannibal seemed to expect it, standing back to take in Will’s reaction. All he could think at first was how beautiful Hannibal’s home was, curated yet imposing in every detail. Everything Will saw, from the lavish rug he stood on with his dirty sneakers to the Venetian art framed on the walls, suggested money, and a lot of it. Still, Hannibal’s house seemed more like an enclave than a home. There was an alcove along the entryway with several fossil arrangements on display, pieces that probably would have been more at home in a museum. They cast long, disturbing shadows on the wall. 

Will turned to Hannibal. 

“I’m sorry it’s so early. You’re probably wondering what I’m doing at your house.”

“Never apologize for coming to me. Office hours are for patients.”

Will made a face. “And the crazies just follow you home?”

“Will. Perhaps we could both use a cup of coffee in the kitchen before continuing this conversation.”

He hesitated then allowed a small nod. 

“Lead the way.”

Hannibal did, showing him into a grand chef’s kitchen. It was large, backlit and filled with stainless appliances. It reminded Will of the BAU lab, or a hospital staging room for surgery. The island in the center was also stainless, topped with a dark wood cutting board and a full set of steel knives. 

“A Belgian siphon will do nicely, I think.”

Hannibal produced an elaborate Victorian-looking coffee maker from the shelving inside the island. 

Will had never seen anything like it.

“How does it work?” 

“It's a type of vaccum; invented in the 1850s after the double globe style.”

Hannibal filled the glass carafe side with ground coffee, the other with filtered water and turned on the burner. 

“Is everything you do -- so elegant?”

“Only when the circumstances lend itself to it.” 

“You like a ritual. It sets you at ease,” Will said plainly. It seemed so simple he chuckled, cocking his head. “Am I making you nervous, Doctor?”

“You’re well aware of your unsettling effect,” Hannibal said. “Now you use it against me.” 

Will watched as the hot water bubbled, then percolated into the coffee canister to brew. 

“Not on you.”

Hannibal said nothing. He was busy retrieving two glasses for their coffee. Will settled into one of the high stools across the island, trying to sit still and not wander. 

“I always buy my beans from Italy. Italians have a very particular ritual for coffee. Cappuccino with breakfast, a caffè macchiato – or two – as an afternoon _spuntino_ , and espresso after dinner of course.”

“Considering vampires don’t eat -- food, you’re very particular about coffee and gourmet cuisine.”

“Being dead is never an excuse to stop appreciating the finer things in life,” Hannibal said pointedly. 

Will flushed. He waved his hand at the kitchen. “For a lot, apparently. Did you live in Italy for a long time?” 

“It was where my mother was from. Have you ever been?” Hannibal asked as he used the gold spigot to pour the coffee into their glasses. 

Will took the mug that Hannibal offered him. Their fingers touched. 

“Mmm, no,” he said, inhaling the scent of his coffee. It smelled wonderful -- notes of caramel and barley surrounded him in a comforting blanket of aroma. “Never been abroad. Seen a lot of the U.S. though. Growing up I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie. We were poor.” 

“Must have been hard for you. Moving around so much. Aways the new boy at school? Always the stranger?” 

“Yes.” Will took a small sip from his cup, pressing his lips against the warm glass. “Guess you could say I’m a product of my upbringing. A lone wolf. Never was good at social cues.” 

“And now you want to know what our relationship is.”

“Yes. I think. Is the answer to that.”

“May I ask what would you like our relationship to be?”

“Yes but -- it’s inappropriate.” 

“I’m hard to shock.”

“I imagine you are.”

“Perhaps instead of stumbling over nomenclature then, it is easier to tell me what else you imagine.”

Will swallowed more coffee hastily, wishing there was something stronger in it. He thought back to being in Hannibal’s office just hours ago, the way the air seemed to void his lungs as Hannibal touched his mouth. His heart pulsed, sudden and furious in his chest. 

“I thought earlier -- when you touched my face -- that I wanted to -- bite you. Press my teeth into your thumb just to hear what sound you made.” 

Hannibal shuddered, so small Will almost missed it. 

“God. I’m sorry.”

He had already imagined the words Hannibal would use to tell him to find another psychiatrist when he heard a creak behind him. 

Hannibal stilled, also listening to the sound. His expression flickered, something akin to pain crossing his eyes. 

“Will, I have forgotten myself. There’s something I must tell you.”

Hannibal’s dark eyes flickered behind him, interrupted. 

“Hello.”

Will startled at the new voice. He looked over his shoulder to see a young man in pajamas coming into the kitchen barefoot, sleepy and smelling like snow and spice, like Hannibal. He was pale and lithe, had moved so quietly it didn’t take Will long to realize what he was. A vampire. 

He was also younger than Will. 

“Sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “The scent of coffee woke me.” 

“Would you like a glass, Randall?” Hannibal offered politely. 

The man looked disdainfully at the coffee maker. 

“No. Haven’t fed yet. It would just upset my stomach.” 

“Well then, let me introduce you to Will Graham since you’re awake. He works for the FBI. Will, this is Randall. He’s my sired.” 

Will extended his hand. Randall shook it perfunctorily. His hand was cold and Will didn’t care if he was being rude by pulling away suddenly. 

“I should go,” he said, not looking at Hannibal. “It’s late. Or early. I’m not sure anymore.”

Randall smirked at him. “We have orange juice in the fridge if you want some for the road. Our donors say it helps with the fatigue.”

“No thanks. I’ll stop on the road if I need anything.”

“Alright then. Goodnight, Will. Pleasure to meet you,” Randall said. 

“Yep.”

Will walked back to the front door with a strange numbness.  

He was nearly to his car when a cold wind trailed like fingers down his back.

 _Hannibal_. Will wasn’t about to think about how he had just been snuck up on twice in one evening. He glared at Hannibal, shoving his key into the keyhole to unlock the car door. 

“I’m Randall’s sire, Will. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. Our relationship isn’t what you think.” 

“Neither is ours,” Will said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [Sugarmouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarmouse/pseuds/Sugarmouse) for the Hannigramholidayexchange2016, who wanted a Hannigram AU with the concept of soul mates. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to [WeConqueratDawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weconqueratdawn/pseuds/weconqueratdawn) for EVERYTHING. SERIOUSLY.

Will woke with a strange sense of loss. He couldn’t remember the dream he had, not really, but he had the vague impression of a forbidding castle looming above him -- sharp thorns that snared his hands, the muted scents of smoke and snow.

The clock told him it was nearly 8 a.m., but his internal wiring suggested otherwise. He might as well not have slept at all. A thin film of sweat had settled on his body overnight. His skin itched from it.

He threw on a ratty robe to let the dogs out. The air outside was heavy and oppressive, like it would rain. Good. It matched his mood.

Today was the day he was supposed to see Hannibal again. Two days since he saw him with _Randall_. He snatched two aspirin off the kitchen table to swallow dry. 

Neither going nor canceling was appealing.

Under the hot stream of his shower, he flinched, remembering the way Hannibal had touched him at his last appointment. A thumb across his lip -- gentle yet uncertain. It had sent Will’s heart rushing to his throat. 

Maybe it had just been a game. It still seemed the simplest answer. 

Set the bait, reel him in. But Hannibal had been genuinely surprised to find Will on his doorstep in Baltimore. The steady ritual and preparation of coffee hadn’t only been for Will’s benefit.

If it had been an act, it was sloppy.

X

On a masochistic whim, Will picked one of the profiling lectures he most hated to give, the one about the Soul Mate Slasher, a man whose given name was Larry Wells. It was the same case that made Jack Crawford famous. And it was also the same one Will had argued with Jack about years ago, as the head of the BAU had planned his exhibit on the Soul Mate Slasher for the Evil Minds Museum.

Wells, AKA the Slasher, had a simple Modus Operandi -- he focused on separating soul mates via the torture and mutilation of one partner. He had a knack for killing his victims by evisceration. Just removing their soul connection wasn’t enough -- he had to reduce one of them completely. The killer had stalked couples who had soul bonded all over the east coast, waiting until he got one alone to start his work. It had been easy for him, a harmless-seeming middle-aged man, genial and unremarkable. He isolated his victim by preying upon their sense of goodwill, feigning car trouble or asking to use the phone.

Before the Soul Mate Slasher, even talk of the soul mates phenomena was rare. A majority of Americans doubted their existence until the Soul Mate Slasher began his work. What the Soul Mate Slasher had done to mated soul mate pairs had been so horrific, it had convinced the public mind. 

Now the theory of soul mates, the idea that a person could be with someone that was solely meant for them, was relatively accepted, though still considered incredibly extraordinary. Some experts in supernatural studies in the Department of Health had even gone so far to release research that suggested every person in the world had a soul mate.

Will had his doubts. It seemed too fairy tale in an ugly world of Minnesota Shrikes and Soul Mate Slashers -- killers of all kinds, beasts among men, natural and unnatural, himself counted among them. They weren’t evil minds exactly, but that didn’t make them less depraved. 

His class listened with rapt attention as he delved deeper into Well’s peculiarities, what originally attracted him to soul mates -- his pregnant wife leaving him for another man. Larry Wells was old news now, the man had been executed in the West Virginia State Penitentiary about five years ago -- three years before Will moved to D.C. But the acts of violence he had left as his legacy were so cruel that even lecturing on the man left an imprint of psychic energy in Will’s lecture hall -- one of horror and fascination. 

“Can anyone tell me what were the key behavioral aspects of Wells’ signature?” 

One student raised her hand. Will nodded at her, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his sweater as she spoke.

“The specific injuries with each victim denotes emphasis on Wells’ need to dominate his victims’ organ by organ.” 

“Yes. And no. What excited him was the order of what he did. Starting out first with organs that he considered nonessential -- a kidney or a spleen -- and then moving on to the stomach or intestines,” Will said, shrugging. “He was taking their body parts but also showing them how unnecessary the trappings of life are. He didn’t think they deserved any of it, including their soul mates.” 

The class listened in solemn silence.

He didn’t dismiss them when the hour was up -- just turned his back and began to shuffle his papers into his bag until they got the message. He heard them gathering their laptops and umbrellas, still whispering. 

It was just a few minutes shy of 6 p.m. His appointment with Hannibal was in a little over an hour. If he left now, he could still make it. 

He knew he should go, keep his appointment. He was getting _worse_. Abigail Hobbs was safe, but somehow, he was not. Killing Garret Jacob Hobbs still weighed on him, and Hannibal seemed to understand that more than anyone. He knew how to talk to Will about it too. He didn't pity him or tell him to move on. The brief moments Will had with Hannibal discussing what he had done at the Hobbs’ house -- and how he had felt-- was the closest he had come to some sort of peace about taking the life Hobbs had. 

He decided to call Hannibal as he was leaving Quantico. He hoped against hope for the voicemail. 

Hannibal, of course, answered. 

“Dr. Lecter? It's Will. I need to cancel our appointment.” 

“Hello Will. This evening’s appointment, I assume?”

“Yes. Tonight,” Will said. He imagined Hannibal sitting, straightening his appointment book until it lined perfectly with the edge of his desk. Even in Will’s mind, Hannibal’s face remained elusive. Was he irritated? Indifferent? 

“You are aware of my cancellation policy,” Hannibal said.

“I am aware.”

“Is it just this appointment you wish to cancel?”

Will exhaled, fingers fluttering nervously over his keys. “I don't know.”

“Perhaps it is best for us to reconnect when you have a better idea of your needs,” Hannibal said. 

Will swallowed the knot in his throat before he spoke again. 

“Yes, that would be good,” he said. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter.” 

He hung up before he could change his mind. He arrived home in a fog that not even his dogs could pull him out of. 

It had finally started to rain.

X

His phone rang at 7 a.m.

Will rubbed his eyes. Another bad dream lurked in the back corners of his mind, mostly forgotten, as long as he didn’t think about it. One of his dogs barked, wagging his tail at him. He petted the dog’s head, answering his phone with his free hand. 

“What?” he grumbled.

“I take it you haven’t had breakfast yet. That’s good,” Jack said, fuzzy on the other line. “How fast can you get to Culpeper?”

Will peeled damp sheets from his legs, stretching out his tight hamstrings. They had tensed up as he had slept. 

“How far is it from Wolf Trap?”

“An hour and 30 minutes, give or take.”

“Text me the address and I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Good,” Jack said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

X

A bright green sign welcomed him to the quaint town of Culpeper, Virginia, telling him the population was only 17,000. He supposed it was 16,999 now.

He followed his GPS past several neat rows of homes and quiet shopping centers -- a library and the local greasy spoon. There were two stop signs and four traffic lights, hardly any other cars. Bedroom community, he thought. He got to his destination relatively quickly, a small house on the edge of town. 

There was already crime scene tape up. Two local deputies were waiting by their patrol vehicle, matching surly expressions and posturing arms crossed over their chests. 

From the car, Will took his time studying the house, a two-story Colonial style residence that had seen better days. It looked like it had been nice once upon a time, but it had fallen to neglect.The gutters were clogged with autumn leaves and one of the upper-story window shutters was falling off the frame. Weeds sprouted from the cracks in the sidewalk leading up to the house and the muddy brown grass in the yard looked as though it hadn’t been cut in months. 

Meanwhile the neighbors’ houses were tidy and maintained. 

Will walked in through the front door. Generally, he was prepared for any manner of stench when he came into a crime scene. The scent that greeted him in this house was not nearly as offensive as it looked. He barely reacted to the smell of death even as his eyes went wide, taking in the whole tableau. 

There was blood everywhere. 

The tangy, metallic scent permeated everything, clouding any other scents that might be of use. But there was only one small body, limp and alone on the couch. 

That was where the murder was done, in the living room. 

Katz, Zeller and Price were already around the couch and the victim, watching him. 

“Only one body?” he asked. He already knew the answer but he had to ask. 

“It looks like a lot of blood, huh,” Price said, bemused. “An average adult body with a weight of 150 to 180 pounds will contain approximately about one and a half gallons of blood. She was probably 120 pounds but he certainly spilled every drop of her out.”

“Wasteful,” Will said. 

Jack stalked over, the collar of his trench popped. His expression was set even grimmer than Will was accustomed to. 

“She was one of ours,” he said. “Former special agent Miriam Lass. She quit the force a few years back. Haven’t seen her since.” 

Will frowned, stepping closer to the body. The corpse was holding her own heart. He felt nothing but dim curiosity. 

He needed to get closer. He couldn’t _see_ enough, it was as if he was expected to describe the texture of something and his hands were swaddled in bandages. 

Jack held him back gently. 

“We need to catch the son of a bitch that did this,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against Will’s neck. “Do everything you can. You’ll have your privacy and anything else you want.”

Will nodded. His eyes were still fixed on Miriam Lass. 

“Everyone out!” Jack ordered. 

There were a few curious whispers but they were all professionals. The agents picked up their tools and were gone within minutes.

Will forced himself to take few moments to walk around the bare living room. It was undeniably spartan, there were no photographs or TV, just a book shelf. Many of the books shelved were on the topic of criminology. Will was familiar with almost all of them. The bottom shelf held a different type of book collection. Self-help, including a few books about fighting depression -- another on self treatment for schizophrenia. A knitting set was under the coffee table, a half-finished lavender-colored blanket folded up neatly. 

The threadbare carpet was a dull off-white, or at least it once was. Now it was speckled in blood. The worst of the splatter was streaked on the walls -- red splashes that almost seemed festive. 

At last, Will neared Miriam. Her hand was out stretched towards him, showing him her heart. The organ had already shriveled up significantly. 

How had the killer removed it? Had he ripped it out? Took his time? 

Her chest wound was covered by the blue dress she wore. It clashed with the orange of her couch. He wondered if the killer had dressed her that way for a reason, if it was the dress itself or the color that was significant. He tested her empty hand, holding it up by the wrist. Still stiff. Her skin was pale as cream, cool even through his gloves. 

“What are your secrets?” he asked her, studying her face. He still couldn’t get a read on her death, an impression of her feelings. The room felt void, in that sense. It reminded him of how he felt weeks ago, when he saw the copycat killer’s mocking tribute to the Minnesota Shrike. The woman in the field. Goosebumps ran up Will’s arms but the room itself wasn’t cold. 

Miriam’s eyes were open and strangely flat. Her pupils had rolled back into her skull but she was meant to be looking at her hand, Will realized. Her head had been _tilted_ that way on purpose. There was something off about her expression -- the still pursed lips, the softness in the faint lines of her face.

Will startled as the piece fell into place.

This wasn’t _horror_. The death was violent but Miriam hadn’t fought back. That meant she might have known her killer, or at least not been afraid of him. 

Will closed his eyes.

At first all he felt was a cool ache. It spread through his arms from his fingers. He pushed against it as if it were chains, let them break, one by one, until he saw.

He stood outside the house again. It was night time. Miriam looked up from her book. She wasn’t afraid -- she almost seemed to be waiting for him. She was ready.

Blood filled his eyes, splattered against the walls. It felt like freedom. 

_I don’t want to scare her. Her short life has been frightening enough. One of Jack’s ponies, broken too young. Broken is lovely but not as beautiful as the one I think of now._

When he’s finished with Miriam, her cheeks are flushed -- pink and radiant and alive. She smiles, curling invitingly like a blossom seeking the sun. The little death, followed by the real thing. He left no mark, no indication of what he has done. Her death is quick, the pain fogged through the pleasure still towering through her synapses. 

Her beating heart is left in her hand, which she would see for herself if she wasn’t already unconscious. It’s a pity really, that she can’t see. 

_Love at first sight._

This is my design. 

Will opened his eyes. His heart was pounding, his head throbbing. He could feel everything now, all the emotion Miriam had -- all the pleasure loading into him, consuming as quicksand. The fine, little muscles in his back and arms kept twitching, in tune with his shallow breath. His groin ached.

He was turned on. At a crime scene. 

He staggered away from Miriam’s corpse, trying to control his breathing. He needed air. He stumbled away, until the screen door banged shut behind him, sudden cold frosting his exhale. 

The porch was crowded, Jack and the rest had been waiting there, making small talk amongst themselves. Their low murmurs thinned to silence at the sight of Will. 

Will saw Jack but his face was like a stranger’s -- indistinct and featureless. Will rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the emotions of Miriam’s strange death. 

“Well?” Jack asked. 

Will shivered. 

“I’m not sure,” he said. He thought of Miriam’s eyes rolling back, pink shriveled heart in hand. She hadn’t even _cared_ when her killer cut it free from her chest and left it there. “It was bad.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jack demanded. “Why did he take her heart?” 

“He didn’t just take it, he wanted to show it off,” Will said. Slowly his mind was clearing, vestiges of arousal fading though he still sounded out of breath. “It’s a pretty distinct difference.”

“Why the show and tell? What was he thinking?”

“It was meant for someone he cares about. Maybe even loves.” 

“Love,” Jack repeated. “You think this psychopath is in love.” 

Jack gestured at Zeller, Price and Katz to join them. 

“We’re looking for someone who wanted to send a message,” he told them. 

“That makes no sense. What kind of message?” Zeller said. “Miriam Lass was a loner. She had no boyfriends or admirers that anyone knew of. No exes either.” He ticked each off with his fingers.

“I didn’t say they knew her,” Will replied.  
Katz stood off to the side of Jack. She blew into her hands for warmth, giving Will a sympathetic smile. 

“You okay, Graham? Your face is a little red. You got the vapors?” 

“We should put his feet up,” Price said. “He’s breathing like he’s been doing cartwheels.”

Zeller snickered. 

“Knock it off,” Jack snapped. Will’s co-workers fell silent instantly. “This is not playtime. This is an investigation for one of our own. I expect each of you to take this seriously.” 

Jack focused on Will -- his brown eyes darker than normal. His pupils had expanded, a mere hint of his blood lust, still leashed and controlled. 

“You. You’re saying Miriam was the message,” Jack said slowly. “Are you sure it wasn’t a message for her?” 

Will sagged, shoulders hunching in. The more he thought about Miriam, the more confused he felt.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She could’ve been displayed for anyone the killer thought would see her first. The first person to find her. Someone else she knew at the bureau. Could be one of us, could be one of them,” he said gesturing at the local PD. But he knew it wasn’t. 

“She was my trainee! I plucked her out of class myself!” Jack said. “Who else-- was the message, was it for me?” 

“I can’t say. It was personal. Romantic even.”

Jack frowned. 

For a second, Will was afraid that Jack saw right through him. How lost he had felt in Miriam’s last emotions, how _exciting_ it had been. But Jack merely shook his head, clearing it. 

“There were a lot of people that knew Miriam at the bureau,” he said. “There were bad people she specifically helped me get behind bars. I bet a few of them are out now. Let’s get the rest of the forensics done for the lab work and -- clean up.”

Jack stared grimly at his team. 

“Katz, I want all of her emails on my desk tonight, phone records too-- if we can get them. Zee and Price, I want the full autopsy as soon as possible.” 

Jack dispatched them, and Katz, Zeller and Price went back into Miriam’s house. Will didn’t think he could handle a repeat of her dying moments. He still wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t going to throw up in the overgrown hedge below him. 

He slid down the porch railing. The sun had long since come up past the spindly trees beyond Miriam’s yard. The pale brightness of it seemed foreign, almost alien. 

Katz came out of Miriam’s house after a few minutes. She eyed Will quizzically, peeling off her gloves. 

“They’re almost done, if you want to get started back to Quantico,” she said. “You want to follow me?” 

“Sure,” Will said tonelessly. He rubbed at his eyes. 

“Hope you don’t have class today.”

“There are worse things.”

“Yeah,” Katz agreed, smiling sardonically. “We could be Miriam Lass.” 

It didn’t sound so bad. At the moment.

He waited in his car for the crew to wrap up. He swallowed three aspirin capsules as the black body bag came out. 

The heat was set on full blast the entire way back to the BAU headquarters. It did little for the chill that had settled into Will’s bones, making its home.

X

Will kept his distance from Miriam Lass even in the lab.

He left to get air in the hallway when Zeller made the Y-incision over her breast bone. He didn’t want to see her skin peeled back like the flesh of a fruit. 

Katz was in one of the smaller labs off to the side of the main one. She looked up from behind large plastic goggles when Will came in. She was combing a UV light methodically over the blue dress Miriam Lass had last worn -- looking for any stray substances, fibers, human or otherwise. 

“Find anything?” Will asked.

“No,” she scowled. “All I got is a few strands of Miriam’s hair. He didn’t even spill any blood on the dress. He was good, whoever he was.”

“If there’s anything useful there, you’ll find it.”

“Oh, I know,” Katz said, but she was no longer looking at him. She immersed herself into her work, her face intent with concentration over each inch of the dress fabric. Will had faded into the background. He relaxed, until the door opened behind them. 

Zeller popped his head in. He avoided looking at Will, hunched in on the side of the room. 

“How’s the dress?” he asked. 

“If you ask me whether it’s blue or white I’m going to punch you,” Katz sighed. “But it’s clean.”

“Price is still in Jack’s office and I’ve got her opened up. Could use a second opinion.”

Katz followed him out into the autopsy space. Will lingered behind them. He wondered if what Zeller had done would remove the imprint of psychic energy that he had felt back in Culpeper. 

It hadn’t. 

Miriam was completely white and pale and her exposed tissues had no blood. The Y-incision, the same. No blood. 

A wave of emotion smacked into him like a punch, overpowering the strange scent of her bloodless corpse, the bleach-scent of the antiseptics. Will reflexively put his hand over his nose, though he knew it wouldn’t help.

Zeller made a face at him. “What’s wrong with you? You’re acting weirder than normal.”

“Leave him alone,” Katz said impatiently. “What have we got?” 

Zeller rolled his eyes. “Lass was completely exsanguinated. And I mean completely. There was no post-mortem bruising due to the blood loss.” 

“That is a little impressive,” Katz said. “It’s going to be harder to determine cause of death.”

“I know,” Zeller said. 

“The lacerations over her chest -- they look surgical. Clean,” Will said. His voice was muffled, his hand still over his nose. 

“Yeah, that’s because he knew exactly how to bleed her out,” Zeller said. “Probably a medical doctor of some sort.” 

“Any supernatural connection?” Katz asked. “Was she bitten?” 

Zeller bit his lip, glancing away from Will. “No. But it’s impossible to say for sure based on how he cut her. He didn’t take any of the blood either, it all ended up on the walls.”

“So our killer just wanted to paint?” Katz asked skeptically. “There's easier ways.”

As Zeller and Katz discussed methods for blood extraction, Will’s attention wavered, drawn to Miriam Lass’ vulnerable heart. Zeller had left it on the stainless steel scale to measure it. Bloodless, it weighed only a quarter of a pound -- half the weight it should be. 

“What good is blood without a heart?” Will asked. 

Zeller looked at him in annoyance. Katz sighed. 

“Jack’s not going to be happy about this,” she said. “We literally got nothing but theories from left field. Miriam Lass was his star trainee.”

“Until she went nuts,” Zeller added. “We were in the same class. I heard they took her out of Jack’s office in a straitjacket, foaming at the mouth.”

“At least she took down some of the BAU’s most wanted with her,” Katz replied coolly. 

Katz and Zeller kept talking. Their voices buzzing like empty static next to Miriam’s body. Meaningless.

Will let himself return to Miriam. He had to. He reached out -- but there was only a gaping emptiness instead of what should have been her killer’s emotions. There was nothing to absorb. The tangent of feeling that he had noticed earlier was fading too fast.

Zeller and Katz’s frustration was bleeding over too -- palpable as a screwdriver twisting deep into his temple. Normally it was violence and rage that he had the biggest problem shutting out, but Miriam Lass’ energy had left him more open to other’s emotions than he was used to.

Jack strode into the room. “Brief me. Now.”

Zeller went through everything he had told Katz and Will -- the surgical cuts, the complete lack of blood and livor mortis.

“Did he violate her?”

Zeller hesitated. 

“Increased serotonin and endorphins in the wounds is much higher than the free histamines, so, uh... that and other fluids -- highly suggestive she experienced a state of bliss as she was bled out. There are no defensive wounds anywhere on her body. I couldn’t scientifically call what happened a violation.” 

“She invited him in,” Will said.

Jack’s gaze fell on him, harsh in its scrutiny. “What do you make of this?”

“Nothing I haven’t already told you,” Will said. Jack was as crestfallen as Will had ever seen him. “I’m -- sorry.” 

“You’re almost paler than Miriam,” Jack said. “Are you sick? Close to a change?”

“It’s not that time of the month,” Will said. His voice lacked the sarcasm he intended. He could see his expression in Jack’s reflective eyes -- weary and damp with cold sweat. 

Jack looked at Zeller. “Zee, can you clean up and take a look at Graham? I can’t have him passing out in the lab. We need all hands on deck.” 

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” Zeller said, but he only spoke to Jack’s retreating back.

X

Will sat uncomfortably in Zeller’s office -- a small, unimposing corner tucked into same floor as the BAU labs. Lab rats, that was the uninventive name the rest of the FBI had donned for those that spent most of their time around skull chisels and knives made to cut solid organs smoothly. Zeller had kept his office tidy and impersonal, save for his medical degree hanging on the wall and a realistic looking mini-muscular figure of anatomy sitting on his desk.

There was a photo there too. Zellers’ parents, a well-dressed and distinguished looking couple, with a younger, less wrinkled Zeller between them, chin lifted as he held up the same degree he had framed on the wall. 

“Your parents are doctors,” Will said. 

Zeller had just grabbed a penlight from the drawer of his desk. He jerked. “What? How do you know that?”

Will shrugged. He didn’t know how to tell Zeller it was the photo -- his parents’ expressions was not one of pride, but of _expectation_.

Zeller followed his glance. 

“You make a lot of weird jumps.”

“Only when there’s evidence.”

Zeller pulled his desk chair around to Will’s side. 

“I’m going to test for pupil reaction,” Zeller said. He only paused for a fraction of a second before he leaned in close.

Will stared at the back wall as Zeller shined a light into one eye, then the other. Will’s pupils constricted rapidly. Zeller was painstaking -- he shined the light back and forth, into one eye at a time. Then he repeated the gesture again, this time to observe the other eye for constriction or consensual response.

“Normal,” he said, grudgingly. “You have slight tapetum lucidum -- a symptom of the lycanthropy virus.”

“The better to see you with, my dear,” Will said dryly. 

Zeller snorted, the side of his mouth tilting in a near smile. 

“Do you have any other pre-existing symptoms or conditions that I should know about?”

“No.”

“How about any headaches, seizures, numbness or tingling?” Zeller asked. 

“Sometimes. Not currently.”

“Chest pain or trouble breathing?”

Will hesitated. 

Zeller prodded forward. “How about earlier today -- when you saw Miriam Lass?”

Will was silent -- answer enough. He felt strange sharing this with Zeller, instead of Hannibal. It didn’t make him feel better, not the way he wanted. 

“I need to check your pulse for irregularities,” Zeller said. “I don’t have a stethoscope.” 

Will held out his wrist. Zeller took it. His hands were smooth but strong from wielding autopsy tools, warm enough to match Will’s. For a moment, they sat still. While Zeller’s focus was concentrated on his arm, Will found himself staring at Zeller’s eyes. Icy blue. Zeller was no killer but Will’s control was so frayed from Miriam, he couldn’t stop himself him from scenting him. 

Most of what Will gleaned off Zeller’s aura was expected -- musky exasperation, sharp and acidic irritation, a tinge of coppery shame but under that, there was curiosity and genuine … _lust_. Zeller had almost succeeded in hiding it, even from himself.

When Zeller finished checking Will's pulse, he pulled his hand away quickly. He scooted back in his chair.

“Your heart rate is a little elevated. Based on that and what you’re telling me, I think you’re under a lot of pressure,” he said. “It’s starting to wear you down. Working with Jack can get to you if you let it. Particularly if you don’t have any effective coping mechanisms.”

“How do you cope? Sex with Freddie Lounds?”

Zeller winced. “Straight for the jugular, huh?” 

“It would be nice to know if she’s going to keep writing about me.”

“I don't know what her plans are,” Zeller said. “Jack tried to scare her but I'm not sure it took.”

Will laughed. “Why should it? All she needs is a contraband cell phone to blog from prison. Shouldn’t be too difficult for her.”

“Yeah, well. That’s up to her. It’s over between Freddie and me.”

“She dumped you,” Will surmised. “How does that feel?”

Zeller looked down at his hands. He didn’t speak. 

Will was not expecting what happened next -- a surge of anguish, crippling in its intensity. He inhaled it, almost choking.

“It’s pretty fucking shitty,” Zeller admitted. His eyes darted to Will's face, holding there.

“Guess I got what I deserved, huh? For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you like that in Stammets’ pharmacy. I was the one who fucked up.”

“Why did you do it then?”

“What made me think she was worth it?” Zeller sighed. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I always liked her, you know? Then I wondered if there was a reason.”

Will blinked. Now it was his turn to be surprised. “I thought you were a scientist.” 

“I am but there are things no one can explain, not even you.”

“Like?” 

“Soul mates,” Zeller muttered. “OK, fine. I said it. I think she might be my soul mate.”

“Freddie Lounds?” Will asked. “You did… did you... Didn't you check?”

That was the myth anyway. You had to kiss to know for sure that you were bonded. 

Zeller rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “No. We did, do you know, _that_ , but she doesn't believe in kissing.”

Off Will’s confusion, he continued, “She told me having a soul mate would make her job harder. She can’t do her job if she’s worried about who she’s bonded to. So she doesn’t kiss. Anyone.” 

“So you just let her use you.”

Zeller scowled at him. “Not everyone wants to be by themselves, Will. I'm not a dog -- I’m not planning to crawl off alone somewhere to die.” 

“You don’t have to explain your motives to me,” Will said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s bullshit. You know I do. I was the one who gave Freddie what she wrote. And I might not be professionally qualified to give a living person medical advice, but chest pain and trouble breathing… that’s not normal. You really should talk to Dr. Lecter about some of the things you’ve told me.” 

“I don’t want to talk to Dr. Lecter,” Will said sullenly. Only he did, and not in a patient to doctor capacity -- and not as a fling either. 

He let his gaze linger on Zeller for a long moment. Their eyes locked for a long, tense beat. He licked his lips, curious what would happen. There it was again, that small flicker of _interest_ , warm and ember like. But then, Zeller looked away, his face and neck flushing a dull pink. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. 

He rummaged around for something at his desk, pushing autopsy records to the side. When he found a business card, he scrawled something on the back of it, his handwriting quick and haphazard. Then, he offered the card to Will. 

“My personal number,” he said, his tone almost nervous. “Just in case you need anything.”

Will took it.

X

The moon was so bright, it hurt.

He whined, the sound whistling out between his teeth. His heartbeat and the blood in his veins thrummed constant, the sound restless in the thin membrane of his eardrum. He couldn’t go on, not like this. 

He stopped, swaying with the cold air. His wolf stopped behind him. Its warm snout nudged Will’s arm, almost patiently. Will barely noticed him. 

Beams of light were cutting through the darkness stretched out before him.

Instinctively, he held up his arm to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights. There was noise, an engine cutting off. Then, a voice. 

“Are you lost?”

“What?” He lowered his arm, blinking his eyes against the light, until shapes and colors emerged.

Two police officers had approached him, their patrol car pulled off to the road. Outside. His heart jumped and he looked up at the moon. It was bright, but still waxing, diminished in the dark night sky.

“What’s your name?” an officer asked. 

“Will Graham,” Will said, wary. 

“You know where you are, Mr. Graham?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

“Wolf Trap, Virginia.”

“You’re in the outskirts of McLean. You’re close to home,” the officer said, pausing. “Is that yours?”

Slowly, Will slowly glanced down, not at his wolf, but to the tail-wagging concern of Winston. He sighed. 

“Hi, Winston.”

Winston licked his leg, whimpering faintly. Will winced. 

“Can I sit down? My feet hurt.”

“Why don’t you take a seat in the car while we call someone for you? Make sure you get home safely?”

Will trudged forward to the open door to the patrol car. His feet were grimy and bleeding. 

“I can call,” he said. 

He slid into the car, followed immediately by Winston.

One officer handed him a standard-issue wool blanket. 

Will wrapped it loosely around his shoulders, plucking gravel out of his feet while trying to keep Winston from licking his wounds and his face. 

One officer hovered near him, keeping his flashlight trained low. 

“Are you on any drugs, medications? Prescription or otherwise?”

“No.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No,” Will said. Then he remembered. 

He could still taste the oaky flavor of distilled alcohol, just as he could taste the echo of Miriam’s last moments. He hadn't been able to sleep when he finally made it home, not with her death still funneling through his mind. 

“Yes,” he said. “But not excessively. I had two fingers of whiskey before bed.”

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking, Mr. Graham?”

He shook his head. “I’m not even sure I’m awake now.”

The officers exchanged glances.

“You said there’s someone you can call?”

“Yeah,” Will said slowly. “I know someone, he’s a doctor.”

The officers were instantly relieved. One offered his phone. 

Will didn’t even think. He called Hannibal. 

“Hello?”

It was Randall that answered. 

Will knew right away. He breathed in, then out. 

“Hello?” Randall asked again, his voice short and clipped. In the background, Hannibal asked who it was.

“No one,” Randall said. “Wrong number.” 

Will hung up.

“Mr. Graham?” one of the officers asked. 

“Just a second,” he said. 

He dialed Zeller. He remembered his personal number, even without the business card given to him. 

He remembered the prickle of heat between them when their fingers touched too -- simple and uncomplicated want. 

“Hello?” came Zeller’s sleep-muddled voice. “Jack?”

“Hi, um no. It’s Will Graham,” Will said. “I need a favor.”

X

“When I gave you my phone number I didn’t think I would hear from you the same night.”

“Are you calling me desperate?” 

Zeller chuckled, looking at Will sideways as his Jeep slowed at the end of Will’s driveway. “No, not desperate.”

“Then what?” 

“Lonely. Troubled. I’m not sure if there's an exact word for it.”

Will looked away. He stared blankly at his house. The windows were lit, the only light in the dark other than the beams of Zeller’s headlamps. He could hear Winston's quiet, excited pants from the back seat. 

Hot air was blowing on his bare legs from the air vent. It felt nice.

“Come inside,” Will said. 

Zeller ran his thumb across his chin, blinking his dark eyelashes. His hesitation was fleeting. “Alright.”

Will didn’t speak again until they were inside. He folded the wool blanket the police had given him, then hung Zeller’s leather jacket on his wobbly coat rack. He didn’t bother getting dressed. 

“How do you like your whiskey?”

“On the rocks is good,” Zeller said. 

Will let the dogs outside as he went to the kitchen. He fixed a glass for Zeller, then himself. When he came back into the living room, he let the dogs back in, setting them up in the kitchen for the night.

In the living room, Zeller was looking at his tools, the pieces of boat motor still littered across his old rug. The ice cubes in his glass clinked as he took a long sip. 

Will followed suit. He barely tasted the familiar, harsh oaky flavor of whiskey. He could barely remember drinking some earlier in the evening. Time had somehow blurred between Miriam Lass’ bloodless corpse and Randall answering Hannibal’s phone. 

“It’s been awhile since I’ve drank whiskey straight,” Zeller said. He raised his glass to Will in a mock toast. 

“What do you normally drink?”

“Wine, or beer,” Zeller said, shrugging. “It gets the job done.”

He looked at Will for a long beat. “Why am I here, Will?” 

“So you don’t have to crawl off alone to die.”

“We should--”

Will leaned forward the last few inches and pressed their mouths together.

Zeller made a surprised sound, but he didn’t pull away. Even as Will teased his mouth open with his tongue, hungry and needy. There was nothing gentle about it. Zeller grabbed onto to Will’s elbows, tugging him even closer. Somewhere in between that, their empty whiskey glasses slid onto Will’s bedside table. 

Will shoved him back on the bed too, taking his own shirt off as fast as he could. Then, he worked on Zeller’s pants, fingers quick on the zipper. 

“F-fuck,” Zeller gasped out, trying to unbutton his own shirt, and failing, as Will straddled him, sliding his hand right into his boxers. 

Zeller’s dick was hard, already leaking at the tip. Will wasted no time, teasing him, smearing the wetness at the head with his palm down the shaft. Their eyes met and without further warning, Will lowered his head. At first he just tongued Zeller’s cock, teasing and tasting, licking away the bitter saltiness. Then he let Zeller fuck into his mouth, relishing his helplessness, his fingers spasming in the sheets. 

Will took as much as he could. He swallowed until Zeller made a desperate noise, until his throat felt constricted and tight. Will’s gag reflex had been lost when he had been intubated after the worst throes of his infection with lycanthropy. He pushed his lips down and down.

When Zeller’s back arched and curved, Will held him steady. Zeller watched with heavy-lidded eyes, trained and focused on Will’s messy, feverish rhythm, his stretched lips and hollowed cheeks. Emotions were bleeding out of him -- a jumbled mix of elation and guilt, and Will couldn’t stop himself from consuming, sucking it all into the dark, hungry pit inside of himself. Zeller was close, Will could taste it. He pulled back just enough to trace the slit of his cock with the tip of his tongue. 

Zeller’s breath quickened, his face turning pale. He made a choked sound as his come pulsed hot against Will’s open mouth. His ecstasy was like blood, warm and alive. Will swallowed it all, wiping his lips as he pulled off.

Zeller stared at him, dumbfounded. He started to speak, then shook his head. 

“Fuck, that was incredible,” he said, finally. But his face was almost bone white, other than the flush to his cheeks. Will knew he’d probably be weak and lethargic for a few hours. 

He wasn't similarly affected. Siphoning Zeller’s emotions had given Will more energy along with a heaping side of self loathing. It was a painful reminder of why he avoided sex. Too much emotions, or too little, depending on how well his barriers held up. If he worked hard enough, he could control his parasitism, but the effort was usually more trouble than it was worth. 

“What about you?” Zeller asked. He wiggled an inch closer. “C’mon don't be like that.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Will asked.

Zeller chuckled, a small puff of air against the nape of Will’s neck. Will tensed, fighting an inexplicable urge to get up and go. 

Gently, Zeller nudged Will to lay on his back.

“If you want me to leave, just say it,” Zeller said. He gave Will a crooked smile. “Or if you want I can stay, and try to make you feel good.” 

Will said nothing. Zeller snorted. 

“I’ll just assume that’s a yes, but stop me if I’m wrong,” he said, then peeled Will’s boxers off.

Will was only half hard. Zeller wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked him from base to tip, watching Will’s face a little self consciously. Will bit his lip, trying to focus on the physical sensation. It was difficult to concentrate. He was sticky and hot, in need of a shower. 

He wanted to look anywhere but at Zeller, now that he wasn’t trying to get him off. His thoughts wandered, even as Zeller teased him, fisting his dick twice. Will could feel the weight of the moon outside the window, pulling at him like an invisible lure. Something about it made him want to crawl out of his skin. To hunt as an animal for the one who evaded him. 

His scent-- 

Will tensed, distracted as Zeller settled between his legs, tightening his lips on Will's shaft. Will closed his eyes. It was the rasp of Zeller’s jaw on his balls and thighs that Will finally felt. His spine curled with his gasp. It was good, but he wanted it harder. Deeper.

Zeller looked up at him, his brow furrowed. Will was hard but still nowhere closer to coming. 

“You need more,” he said roughly. “Our secret, okay?”

There was a wet sound as Zeller sucked at two of his own fingers, getting them slick. He caressed his fingers between Will’s thighs, the inch of skin from his balls to his ass. A sound was torn from his throat when Zeller circled his hole. His cock twitched up. 

Zeller smirked, then lowered his head. Dark strands of hair tickled against Will’s stomach as he sucked his cock. Slowly and carefully, Zeller nudged his finger into Will’s hole, teasing him open. The sensation of invasion gradually melted away to something warm growing inside his belly.

Zeller curled and thrusted his finger before adding a second. There was a second when the stretch was nearly painful, but then his hole gave and Zeller’s fingers sank deep, curving inside. Zeller kept sucking on him, using his tongue as a distraction. He rubbed Will’s prostate, making his legs quiver. A thin, white fluid leaked from his cock, but it wasn’t enough. Will's hands itched. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull Zeller away or grab his head and force him down. 

He stared into space, at the smooth line of Zeller’s back, the muscles trembling and flexing down his vertebral column and below the sharp blades of his shoulders. He thought of the scalpel Hannibal kept on his desk, the refined, pointed tip. Then, unconsciously, another image came to him, a heart in an outstretched hand. An offering of love. He watched the wet circle of Zeller’s mouth. He wanted Hannibal’s mouth instead, the graze of sharp teeth, the flickering dark of his eyes.

But Zeller’s eyes became Miriam Lass’, milky blue and dead. Her pleasure was Will’s, spiraling out, robbing him of breath. 

Will came with a soft whine. His cock spurted -- on Zeller’s neck and chest, making a mess. Zeller kept milking him with his fingers, drawing it out until Will keened, pulling away. 

He was still coming down, still trying to draw air into his lungs. He was whole. Alive. His heart pumped loudly-- in his chest, not his hand. Ever so slowly, Miriam Lass’s death faded. 

Dimly, he became aware of Zeller beside him again. He was pulling up his pants with a noticeable sluggishness. His fatigue made his hands tremble. When he noticed Will watching him, he frowned. 

“You okay, Graham?” Zeller asked. “Been awhile, huh.”

He wasn't trying to be cruel. His voice was soft, as though he could soothe a frightened animal. 

Will bristled. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Jesus Graham,” Zeller groaned. “Okay, now I’m tired. You’re fucking exhausting.”

“Let yourself out then.”

Zeller blinked, for a second he looked insulted. It was temporary. He rose unsteadily from the bed, giving Will an indelicate snort. 

“Fine,” he said, tugging his shirt over his head. “You’re welcome for picking you up in the middle of nowhere by the way.”

“You owed me.” 

“Yeah well, who doesn't? It’s a short list, I bet. Maybe you should learn to let things go.”

Zeller finished getting dressed in a hurry. He stopped at the door though, hesitating. 

“Just do me a favor, okay? Lock the damn door before you get run over. Sleepwalking is a really, really stupid way to die.”

X 

Will was still wide awake when Zeller’s Jeep rolled out of the driveway.

He had found an old towel to lay on in bed. He couldn't will himself up to take a shower -- as appealing as the idea was.

When he finally managed to fall asleep, it was fragmented, like a broken mirror. A thousand reflections awaited. The whisper of snowfall bled into each shard. 

Will shook his fur, scattering the ice that clumped to his pelt. Beyond the birch trees, there was an old, rusted gate. The coiled serpents beckoned him forward, though he knew they were not real prey. A gray castle emerged from the gloom. Calling him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [WeConqueratDawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weconqueratdawn/pseuds/weconqueratdawn) who is an amazing writer as well as editor -- for real wow. 
> 
> Also sorry for the delay, started fretting over some parts of this. Hopefully smooth sailing from here on out?! -_-

Will surveyed his class, letting the collage of photos speak for him, at first. If he bothered to skim the emotions of his students he knew he would mostly find boredom, vague interest. Their genetic makeup was mostly human. Though supernatural citizens were particularly qualified for police work as a result of their heightened senses, very few could pass the required tests.

Will included.

“Same age, same height, same weight as his daughter Abigail,” Will said, staring at the projected screen. “There was a ninth victim who fit Abigail Hobbs’ profile but Garret Jacob Hobbs didn’t murder her.”

He clicked his remote.

The next slide was a photo of Cassie Boyle, impaled on the antlers of a severed stag head. Grotesque and beautiful. A work of art, in its own way.

“The killer who did this wanted us to know he wasn’t the Minnesota Shrike. He was better than that. _Colder_. He left no telling signature. He is an intelligent psychopath. He is a sadist. He will never kill like this again. So how do we catch him?”

There was a small tremor at the back of the lecture hall. Several students shifted in their seats. Will focused on the darkened last row of his class, senses prickling. There was the static buzz of one undead, Jack Crawford. Hannibal Lecter was with him, too ancient for Will to read. Both men in their primes but different as fire and ice.

The reflective light of the class’ projection screen illuminated their faces, bringing out the delicate traces of blue veins in their jaws and necks. Both were watching him but it was Hannibal that Will glanced away from as though it hurt.

Cassie Boyle’s corpse was still projected behind him.

It was a somehow more welcome distraction. Will turned to his students again, his glasses pushed firmly up his nose.

“Our Copy Cat Killer had access to specific information. He is an avid reader of Freddie Lounds and TattleCrime.com,” he told his class. “He had intimate knowledge of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ murders. Motives, patterns. Enough to recreate them and arguably, to elevate them. To art.”

Both Jack and Hannibal were ignored as he clicked to the next slide, to a photo of Abigail and Garret Jacob Hobbs in happier times, on what appeared to be a family hunting trip. Mountain ash and elms framed them, leaves dappled in sunlight. Hobbs seemed guarded, even in photograph form.

He wasn't the same man when Will had met him. In those seconds, he had become a man who had nothing left to lose. Desperate but still controlled.

“How intimately did Cassie Boyle’s killer know Garret Jacob Hobbs?” Will mused. “Did he appreciate him from afar, or did he engage him? Did he ingratiate himself into Hobbs’ life? Did Hobbs know his Copy Cat as he knew him?”

He clicked his remote again. There was a photo of Louise Hobbs on the hospital bed, pale but alive. The photo had come courtesy of TattleCrime.com, part of an exclusive interview with Louise given from her hospital bed. Proceeds from the ads and accompanying GoFundMe would supposedly help fund Abigail Hobbs’ education. As much as he loathed Freddie Lounds, Will had clicked the donate link as well. Abigail hadn’t deserved the chaos unleashed in her life.

Will could relate.

“Before Garret Jacob Hobbs nearly murdered his wife and attempted to do the same to his daughter, he received an untraceable call, re-routed through a swatting service,” Will said.

He clicked to the next slide, to a picture of Garret Jacob Hobbs, bloodied and filled with Will’s bullets. He was milky eyed, his corpse slumped below the kitchen sink.

Will remembered pressing the trigger again and again.

His beast had _rejoiced_ in the puncture of sound splitting the air. There had been both agony and ecstasy as Hobbs’s life force ebbed. In the small, homey kitchen of the Hobbs’ home, Will’s parasitism had emerged. The scent of pain was heady, _alluring_ a drop of blood to a shark. Will had willingly drank from Hobbs’ pain, his death. And that couldn’t be blamed on anyone.

There was still that one missing piece that couldn't be ignored, not even in the glaring face of Will's own self loathing.

Garret Jacob Hobbs hadn’t been surprised, had he? Will had followed him inside, gun raised. In those last moments of his life, he had been _resigned_. Why?

He had known Will was coming.

Will looked back at his class, frowning. Hannibal and Jack were still standing at the back, patient as the grave.

“I believe the as-yet unidentified caller to the Hobbs’ home was our Copy Cat Killer,” he said to his students. He turned his back on them, gathering his papers.

It was an effective dismissal as any.

“Don’t forget, essays on signature detection are due next week.”

As his students shuffled out dejectedly, Will awaited Jack and Hannibal. He was tired and wary from a lack of sleep as well as his evening of sleepwalking.

Zeller hadn't been a good replacement for therapy. Something like guilt prickled at him as he remembered sucking Zeller off, the knot of fingers tangled in his sheets -- the bitter taste of come on his tongue.

Hannibal moved towards him, his plain black suit hugging the strong lines of his body. Will looked at the length of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. Anywhere but his eyes.

His second-hand blazer felt suddenly constraining, the large lecture hall closing in.

“We have another body,” Jack said. “Organs missing like Cassie Boyle, like Miriam Lass. I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“You want to know if I can _handle_ it,” Will amended.

He shoved some papers into his bag and made a vague gesture in Hannibal's direction. “Making sure I have all the psychiatric care I need in advance? Did you bring a strait jacket too? A muzzle?”

“Will--” Jack began.

“My concern is only for you,” Hannibal interrupted, voice sharp with unrestrained emotion.

Will froze, hands clenching on notepads and pencils. Jack tensed as well, looking at Hannibal curiously but Hannibal didn't seem to notice.

“I cannot let you go into dark places without a way out, Will. It would be -- unconscionable.”

Will narrowed his eyes but Hannibal did not back down.

“Have you seen the body?”

“No, not yet,” Hannibal replied. “If you would allow it, I would go with you.”

He chuckled. _Allow it_. His choices were always rare and few between.

“And if I don’t? Allow it?”

“I will leave. Return home to Baltimore, if you wish.”

Will felt his lip curl. It was damn near unconscious. He didn’t want Hannibal going home to _Randall_ , and he lacked the mental forts to even begin to hide it.

“I wish you vampires would just leave me alone.”

“Do your job and I will,” Jack cut in. “ _My_ _shadow_ won't darken the doorway of your classroom again.”

“Until you want to use me again,” Will said bitterly. “What’s the use protesting? I'm good with your evil minds, aren't I, Jack?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” Jack admitted.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Will said sarcastically. “Fine. I'll do it.”

Hannibal bowed his head, turning to leave. “My door is always open to you, Will.”

Will couldn’t swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

“Don't go,” he said, before he could bite back the words.

Hannibal paused, looking over his shoulder.

If it was possible, Jack’s brows rose another inch. Will flushed, moving quickly to busy himself. He turned off the projector, flooding the room in darkness.

“I’ll go,” he told Jack’s profile. “And Dr. Lecter can do as he pleases.”

“I'll need a ride,” Hannibal said.

**X**

A young, blond agent was waiting for Jack down the hall. Will recognized him right away. Agent Morris. The newly turned vampire had nearly attacked him and Eldon Stammets a few days ago.

As soon as Morris saw Will, his eyes went wide. He spun on his heel, trying to pretend he hadn't spotted Will.

Jack didn't miss any part of the exchange.

“Agent Morris!” he boomed. His thunderous voice filled the hallway, a force of reckoning for anyone in earshot.

Will almost felt bad, except he had seen Morris’ bloodlust in action and knew very well he wouldn't be able to control it. It wouldn't be long till he was _dealt_ with either.

Vampires had their own way of taking care of those who survived the change but couldn't control their hunger. Morris was one who never should have been turned in the first place.

The agent was already furious that Jack was singling him out. His rage crackled louder than the traditional static buzz of an undead aura. He really hadn't been dead long, months maybe. Occasionally Will could tell things about the newly turned. He kept those things to himself.

“I hope what I just saw was not you trying to avoid me and my colleagues,” Jack said. “My eyes must be deceiving me.”

“I'm sorry, Agent Crawford,” Morris muttered, perfunctorily.

“Don't apologize to me,” Jack snapped. “Apologize to Will Graham. You nearly attacked him at the hospital. Did you forget so easily?”

Morris raised his chin, glaring at Will. “I’m sorry _special_  Agent Graham.”

“You don’t have to--,” Will said. “I know how hard it can be.”

Morris sneered. “I’m in control.” _Mongrel_.

The thought was so clear, so furious, Will blinked, taken back. The beast in him woke almost lazily, draining the taint of Morris’ dark emotion with silent relish.

He fought the initial wave of panic. He shouldn’t be able to consume energy from the undead. Humans yes, not vampires. At least that was the way it had always been. There was a pit in his stomach when Jack slapped Morris on the back -- hard.

“That’s enough, agent,” Jack said. “Desk duty tonight.”

Hannibal stood motionless, watching the exchange.

Morris nodded tightly before stalking off.

The tension in Will’s shoulders and neck eased only when Morris rounded the corner, out of eyesight. He debated warning Jack about Morris, how close he was to giving in to his bloodlust. The urge was shaken off at the last second. He wasn’t supposed to know the things he did.

He could be wrong.

It had happened before.

**X**

Hannibal rode with him on the way to Annapolis. They didn’t talk until they crossed over the bridge from Virginia to Maryland, finally making a break from the claustrophobic crawl of DC traffic.

“Would you like to talk about Randall?” Hannibal asked.

Will jerked. He hazarded a glance in Hannibal’s direction.

“Not really. Would you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “But I confess I'm not sure where to begin.”

“That seems unlike you.”

“I am learning how possible it is to become unlike one’s self, under the right circumstances.”

Will didn’t look away from the road. He waited.

“I thought I was content with Randall,” Hannibal said, after a moment. “Now I find myself wishing that I had met you when I was younger, with less ethical concerns.”

“Like when you were a fledgling in Italy?”

“In many ways, yes.”

Will considered that.

“I guess I wonder too, what you were like then.”

“What do you see?”

Frowning, Will gazed out beyond the highway, cars and bridges blurring like a watercolor painting. It wasn't like what Jack asked of him, in that Will could only imagine Hannibal's life. But even what he conjured in the whirring synapses and neurons of his brain was impossibly vivid. He envisioned narrow Italian streets; the cobbled, crumbling bricks. The air was heavy with the salt smell of the sea.

Hannibal rested at the doorstep of one of the terraced homes. A miasma of danger surrounded him, blood smeared like ripe berries across his mouth. It was like Will had imagined before, in therapy, only this time more real.

Hannibal was lying in wait, like a predator -- coiled on his haunches. There was only the slightest flicker in his face as music drifted from the city center.

Will could hear it too-- the sustained notes of an aria -- heavenly and sublime.

It was Hannibal that Will was drawn to though, however feral that he seemed. Hannibal was -- young. And he was still human, not a vampire.

It didn't add up with the story Hannibal had told him, that he had killed and _ate_ only after his becoming.

“Will?”

He blinked. Italy disintegrated like old film. Young, _human_ Hannibal was the last to fade.

“I don't know what I see,” Will said. “It doesn't make sense. You don't make sense. Or I don't. It's hard to tell which.”

“Perception is a tool that is often pointed at both ends.”

“And I keep grabbing the wrong end,” Will replied. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“I won’t condemn you for your sins,” Hannibal said.

“Is that your plug for returning to therapy?”

“It’s a request for you to take better care of yourself.”

Will’s chest tightened. Hannibal hadn’t said it, subtly or otherwise, but he couldn’t help but think he was referring to Zeller.

“Is that what you do with Randall? Take _care_ of him?”

“It was I who changed him,” Hannibal said. “In some ways, I will always be responsible for him. It is not the same reason I am here with you now, Will.”

“Why then? You asked me what I wanted our relationship to be in your kitchen, but you never answered your own question. Is this some weird doctor-patient thing?”

“No,” Hannibal said, surprisingly forceful. “Please believe me when I say I never meant to deceive you about my relationship with Randall. I would have been content to be friends or colleagues, but when the opportunity for something greater presented, I behaved-- rashly.”  

Will thought back to their last appointment, remembering the way Hannibal had touched him -- his thumb lingering over Will’s mouth. There was nothing incautious about it.

“Are you faithful to Randall?”

Hannibal stiffened. “Yes. I was. Until-- until--”

“You don’t have to say anything else,” Will said. He fluttered his fingers nervously over the steering wheel.

Neither of them spoke.

“Do you think, we could just… take a step back?”

Hannibal’s lips quirked but it didn't meet his eyes.

“Keep it professional,” he quoted.

Will’s smile was brittle.

“Now that I finally find you interesting."

**X**

When they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Jack got out of his car and purposefully strode over to Will’s car window.

Will rolled it down.

“Took you long enough. Katz, Price and Zee are already inside,” Jack said.

“It was my fault,” Hannibal said. “I had to make a phone call to a patient.”  

Jack’s gaze flicked to Hannibal. He was almostly instantly accommodating. Will knew it was a sign of respect for Hannibal’s position, as well as his age.

“By all means, Dr. Lecter,” Jack said. “Here’s what we know about the crime scene: The victim was found in his hotel room bathtub. He had requested two keys at check in. No one saw a second guest come or go. Abdominal mutilation and organ removal. Just like Miriam Lass. Just like Cassie Boyle.”

Will looked over his glasses at the hotel.

“Even if we accept that Lass and Boyle were killed by the same person, this sounds more like urban legend than -- virtuoso. Whoever displayed Lass and Boyle wasn’t simply killing -- he was conducting a work of art for a specific person.”

Jack nodded. “That’s why I need you here for this. The bathroom is sealed off until you get there. You’ll have it fresh.”

“Fresh?” Will repeated. “Fresh as a daisy?”

“Certainly not as fragrant as one,” Hannibal said.

Will smirked.

“You’re not helping,” Jack said to Hannibal, but the words lacked bite. To Will, he said, “it’s fresh enough for you to tell me if it’s the the same killer. Then you can go back to class.”

“I’ll believe that when it happens,” Will replied.

He opened the door to his car, getting out to stretch his arms and legs. Hannibal followed suit, but he had no need to stretch. He merely ran his hands down his pants, smoothing out the micro creases.

“Are we expecting any more bodies after Will sees this one?” Hannibal asked.

“If it’s the same twisted individual who did what he did to my best trainee, I do.”

“Don’t let the killer stir you up,” Will said. He couldn’t sense Jack’s frustration but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see it in his clenched fists, the bloodshot rims of his eyes. “Miriam Lass was a message meant for someone, not necessarily you.”

“Why take her heart then?”

“Why take Cassie Boyle’s lungs?” Will asked. He thought quietly to himself. “If the same person who killed Cassie killed Miriam, she was somehow different to him. Cassie, he wanted to humiliate in death, like a public dissection. Miriam was different,” Will said. “She died happy. He hadn’t wanted to scare her.”

“Cassie Boyle. Miriam Lass. And now this John Doe.”

“An evolution,” Hannibal suggested. “The killer is making new discoveries as he goes. Improvising.”

“He’s _singing_ the same time he composes,” Will said slowly.

Hannibal smiled. “Let’s see what different composition awaits us this time.”

**X**

Will stepped out of the elevator following immediately on Jack’s heels. He averted his eyes from the scattered local police officers. Hannibal hovered behind him, less than an arm’s length between them.

Their John Doe hadn’t checked out of Room 727. At least not physically.

Inside, Price was dusting for fingerprints. Katz was combing the bed for hair and fibers. Zeller was tweezing something miniscule out of a trail of blood that ran from the blood-stained bed to the bathroom in a wake of overturned furniture -- the path of a struggle, Will realized. Small flags were laid out, indicating the larger pieces of pink and red tissue scattered along the way.

He could sense only small threads of emotion in the living room. The death had likely been quick. He’d need to get close.

“Has anyone touched the body?” Jack asked.

“Local police behaved themselves,” Zeller told Jack, but his eyes lingered on Will.

“I touched the body,” Katz said. “A lot going on with that body. Surgery was performed. And then un-performed.” She also eyed Will, then Hannibal standing behind him. “Hi, Will. Dr. Lecter.”

“Hello,” Hannibal said, genially.

“Surgery was un-performed with bare hands. Sutures were clawed open,” Zeller said, as if Hannibal had not spoken. He pointed towards the bathroom, his blue gloves stained. Off Jack’s stern look, he lowered his head.

“I also did a little touching,” he admitted.

“Pieces of him were torn off from bed to bathroom, like bread crumbs,” Price said.

“Was he guiding us down a path?” Hannibal asked. “Telling a story?”

Will followed Jack to the open door of the bathroom. There was a man’s body in the bathtub, opened from neck to pelvis, his clothes ripped open from an obvious struggle. Two or three inches of blood pooled shallow around his stiffened upper limbs.

“Not a story,” Will said. “This is... surgery. And it wasn’t performed here. Would have been a lot more blood.”

Katz, Zeller and Price gathered around Will in the doorway. Hannibal stood several feet back, waiting and watching. Will liked that about him, that he didn’t need to breathe down his back like the others always seemed to.

“If he’s moving his victims, he could be performing the mutilations in the same transport,” Katz said.

“Find the car, find the killer,” Price said.

Will took of his glasses, sliding them into his pocket. Gradually, the others’ voices faded.

He crouched low beside the tub, breathing in deep. Ah, now he could taste it. The thick tang of fear -- a wild rush of adrenaline going straight into his bloodstream. Then, at the back of his tongue, there was the creep of exhaustion. Greying unconsciousness giving way to the far, tempting whisper of death.

He was eye level with the dead man. He examined his hand, turning the wrist so he could look under the fingernails. Dark, crusty blood had settled there.

“He clawed open his own sutures,” Will said. “He was weak from that when he met his killer.”

“Somebody sew something inside of him he was trying to get out?” Jack asked.

“Wasn’t to get his kidney. The killer already took it with him. Or her,” Katz said.

“I’ll say him,” Price said. “Safe guess.”

“Him or her, I’m not sure we’re dealing with a killer,” Will said. He looked at the red, inflamed cut along his pelvis. Before it had been disturbed, it had been expertly stitched. By a practiced, steady hand. “At least not the way we’re used to. Taking the spleen wouldn’t have killed him alone.”

Jack frowned. “What was taken from the chest?”

“Tried to take the heart, but was probably interrupted,” Zeller said, leaning in closer to Will. “It’s intact. Traumatized, but intact.”

Will studied the open chest cavity. The leathery, cedar scent of Zeller’s cologne kept fusing with the impression of the man’s death. Will’s nostrils flared.

“I need space,” he said, irritated. He didn’t look away from the wound.

Jack had already backed into the hall with Katz and Price. “Zee, c’mon.”

Zeller stood with a sigh.

Dimly, Will was aware of the door shutting quietly behind them, leaving him alone from the mess of their thoughts.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled it. In his mind, he took a step backward. Away from the clawfoot tub, shoes squeaking on the tiles. The victim’s foot slid out of the tub, onto the floor and into a pool of blood that crawled sensuously slow up its leg to the knee.

Will continued to back-walk to the door down the empty hall as the massive blood stain next to the bed shrunk, then disappeared.

The body from the bathtub now lied in the bed. Alive.

Beyond that was the window, the moon hanging thick and heavy in the sky. Will froze. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

His wolf was sitting on its haunches in the corner of the room. Its head tilted as Will stopped short, starring. He approached cautiously. The wolf watched with warm amber eyes.

Somewhere behind him, glass shattered.

His victim knocked over a lamp, crashing into Will.

Will struggled with the man, down the hall again. His fingers clutched at nothing but slick blood. They tumbled into the bathtub, the man was almost on top of him -- panting and pale. His skin was sickly grey.

 _No, no_.

The man fell, limp, twitching dead weight on top of Will. The bulk of him was suffocating, he could just barely budge him enough to reach his medicine bag on the sink counter.

The shape of the scalpel was easy to find among the rest of his tools. On top of the man, he made an incision along his chest. The cut was deep, he could see the bone. He slipped his fingers in, worming his way in between the fifth and sixth ribs, spreading them open. Until the heart was in hand.

Until the heart was in hand.

He could feel it seize, dangerously fast. He tried to compress it, tried to make it beat rather than shudder. No matter what he did, the flow of blood only slowed. The heart's ventricles -- its main pumping chambers -- quivered, blood stilling in its chambers.

The man died with Will’s hand wrist deep inside his body. The energy he pulled was weak, already lukewarm as the man spasmed his last shudder.

He took his hand out, staring at in numb shock.

The wolf padded down the hall, standing with Will over the body in the tub. Its long tongue came out, caressing over Will’s dripping fingers.

**X**

Will sat stonily on the toilet next to the bathtub. The man was still there, his body cut open from neck to pelvis. So much… rotted fruit.

Jack was back inside the small bathroom, Hannibal stood with him, as near as he could get to Will without being obtrusive. Will didn’t mind.

Zeller, Price and Katz lingered in the suite’s long hallway. That he minded. He could feel the acidic flavor of Zeller’s emotions growing stronger, more overbearing now than his cologne. He was still smarting from the night before. And now Will was questioning his judgement.

“It’s the same guy who killed Miriam Lass and Cassie Boyle,” Zeller insisted.

Will scowled at his clean blue nitrile gloves. There was no identifying characteristics he could gleam from the psychic imprint. If anything the emotion the killer left with the dead body reminded Will more of his days as a homicide cop -- the sudden guilt of a drug deal gone bad.   

“It’s not the same.”

“There are too many similarities,” Zeller said.

Will had put his glasses back on. He glowered at Zeller over the plastic rim. “There aren’t enough.”

“Knife wounds are cuts, not stabs. Anatomical knowledge, dissecting skills. Mutilation, organ removal. Victims in clothes, on display,” Zeller said, ticking each attribute off with his own blue gloved fingers. “Can I say etcetera or should I go on? Twenty two signature components all attributable to the same killer.”

“Twenty two _possible_ signature components,” Will corrected.

“Same killer.”

Will got up from the toilet. Without even looking as he did it, Will closed the bathroom door on Zeller. The last thing he saw was was Katz smiling cheekily on the other side at his abrupt boldness.

On the other side, Hannibal watched him calmly, waiting. Will looked away.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

“Are you sure they’re not the same person?”

Will shrugged. “More or less.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Why are you sure?”

“Miriam Lass and Cassie Boyle were _art_ , Jack. This is finger painting.”

He was hyper-aware of Hannibal’s gaze, intense as a hand around his gut.

“This is a medical student or a trainee,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate. “Someone trying to make an extra buck on a back-alley surgery and it went bad. Actively bad.”

“These incisions were certainly unpracticed,” Hannibal affirmed, glancing over the edge of the tub.

Jack exhaled, disappointed. He rubbed at his face. It was a very human gesture, more vulnerable than Will had ever seen.

He knew what was at stake for him. He didn’t know Miriam or what had broken her but he could see that her death had rattled something inside of Jack.

“We’ll catch Miriam’s killer eventually,” Will said. It was as optimistic as Will got. But somehow, he knew it was true. They would.

“We will both help you,” Hannibal promised.

Jack growled -- the low, deep sound raised the hairs on Will's arms. “I want to catch him _now_. And when I do, you won’t have a chance to shoot him.”

Will frowned.

“You might be undead and immortal but can’t just jack up the law and get underneath it.”

“Can’t I?” Jack said. “How do you see Miriam’s killer, Will?” He waved his arm angrily at the clawfoot tub, the slack-jawed corpse inside it. “If not this, who?”

Will rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on what he did not want to see or _feel_ again. A field opened up to him, dry, brown grass crunching underfoot. He thought of Cassie Boyle. Terrified to the end. The power it took to achieve that. The killer had the skill, the drive, to keep her alive through every gasping second of the removal of her own lungs. Will wanted to retch.

He saw the little house, nearly derelict from neglect. Inside was Miriam Lass. The little death. Her heart in her small upturned palm. Finally happy. Finally dead, where she had always felt she belonged, with those she … she couldn't save.

The killer was unchanged through all of it. Nearly alien in his inability to feel what they did. Will felt the cold come again, the kiss of frost on glass, spider-webbing so slowly across his lips. There was hunger, stark and unmistakable.

“I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals,” he said, finally. “They feed it, keep it warm, yet they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal…...and nobody can tell what he is.”

He raised his eyes to Hannibal’s, then to Jack’s, terrified.

“Whatever he is, he’s not human.”

For the first time, Jack looked skeptically at Will. Hannibal, merely thoughtful.

“You really think a loose cannon could slip unnoticed within the immortal ranks? We police our own, Will,” Jack said.

“I never said immortal. Could be a shifter, or a warlock.”

“I’ve had Paranormal all over this! There are no traces of the occult!”

“Perhaps that is not what motivates the killer,” Hannibal said.

Jack huffed out a laugh. His gaze flicked between Hannibal and Will, without really seeing either of them.

“We’re going to find him,” he said. His fist slammed down hard on the kitchen sink.

**X**

Hannibal had found him some coffee.

Will took the styrofoam cup gratefully. The sludge inside of it tasted like shit but he wasn’t about to turn down anything that was warm.

“Jack has relieved you of your duties,” Hannibal said. “They found an ID for the unfortunate victim under the bed.”

Will sipped at his coffee. “What you're saying is he’s too distracted to stop me from leaving.”

He looked out the glass doors of the hotel lobby to the parking lot. It was filled with police cars -- a few news vans. He wondered if Freddie Lounds was among them. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“You should stay the night in Baltimore,” Hannibal said. “I have guest rooms -- you’ll have privacy. You need to rest.”

“No,” Will said. His heart went up to his throat.

“If it’s Randall--”

“I said, no. I’m dropping you off, that’s it.”

A few feet away, Jack separated from a cluster of local PD. He approached them.

“May I have a moment with Will, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Will said. “I’m not that tired.”

“Good,” Jack said. “This will just take a minute.”

Together they walked outside, around the mostly full parking lot. It was cold, the air frosted his breath. The sky looked vast and empty other than the growing sliver of the moon. Will buried his own hands deep in his pockets.

“When was last time you saw Dr. Lecter… professionally?” Jack asked, abruptly. “Before or after Miriam Lass?”

“Before,” Will said.

Jack made a tsk’ing sound. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

“I told you I don’t need a therapist.”

Jack side-eyed him. “You need something. Your head is not in the game. I need you to prepare yourself.”

“I’m prepared,” Will said. He stared off into the horizon. There was no hint of the sun yet.

Jack snapped his fingers to get Will’s attention.

“You're asking me to rip the Baltimore supernatural community from seam to seam. Where’s your head, Will?”

“Take your pick. Minnesota. Maryland. Virginia. Wherever you put it, Jack.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack said, frustrated. “Where is your support? Your anchor? What is keeping you from floating away when I need you?”

“My-- what?”

Hannibal and Jack had obviously compared notes sans Will's appointment.

“We all need someone, Will. A team, or a partner, to rely on.”

“Funny you mention that. Weren’t you Miriam Lass’ anchor?”

Jack paused, turning to face Will.

“She was my trainee. I take full responsibility for her death.”

“She _was_ your trainee. She was out of the force when she died.”

“Yes,” Jack said heavily. “I was one of the first ones who called for her removal from the BAU. She resigned of course, instead of letting it get that far. A team player to the end.”

Will frowned. He hadn't known this.

“What happened?”

“A case got to her,” Jack admitted. “A killer in Richmond who enjoyed mutilating eight year olds waiting for the school bus. Miriam -- she couldn’t handle it. What I thought was steel became as delicate as eggshell.”

“And all the king's horses and all the king’s men couldn't put her together again,” Will finished, dully.

“Yes,” Jack replied. “And I don’t want that to happen to you. Even I have a psychiatrist, Will. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done and stay sane.”

“I know what’s good for me.”

They came to a stop, side by side at the edge of the parking lot. A cold breeze ruffled Will’s hair. He could hear the semi-trailer trunks whizzing down Route 50. Beyond that was the ocean, waves crashing fast and choppy against the aging cement supports of the Bay Bridge.

“I’m going to see Dr. Lecter again,” Will said. He had known he would, back in the car with Hannibal. Admitting it to Jack was just the next step. “I’m ready to resume my therapy.”

What came next, he didn't know.

**X**

It was nearly 6 a.m. by the time Will got to Baltimore. He pulled up Hannibal’s driveway and killed the engine.  
  
“There’s nothing I can do to convince you to stay, to rest for a few hours?”  
  
Will was tempted, no way around it. But he couldn’t, and they both knew it. A door slammed in the background. It was Randall, coming out the front door. He didn’t bother locking it. He gave Hannibal a small wave. A gym bag was thrown over his shoulder. He looked like he was going to the gym.  
  
“I appreciate the offer but I need to get home to my dogs,” Will said, as Randall came around to the passenger side of Will’s car.  
  
“You're having a late night,” Randall said pointedly to Hannibal.  
  
“Another fascinating peek behind the curtains,” Hannibal replied as he opened the car door and got out.  
  
Randall glanced at Will, then past him into the backseat. His nose wrinkled. “Hello, Will. You must have a lot of dogs.”  
  
Will knew there was still clumps of wet fur on the seats from the last time he took his pack out to the creek.  
  
“I have a few.”  
  
“I’ve always liked mutts,” Randall said. “There's an -- an admirable simplicity in their design.”

“You must know a lot about them.”

“I’m an evolutionary biologist,” Randall said. He rested his hand on Hannibal's, possessively. “For dogs, it’s both evolution and systematic biology that reveal how far they have devolved from their ancestors.”  
  
It was Randall’s design that suddenly became clear.

Ruled by insecurity and driven to dominate. What was happening now…. A territory dispute.

“You envy dogs,” Will said. He smiled faintly. “Their sense of belonging. Their adaptability.”

Randall tensed but Will was already looking at Hannibal. He lowered his eyes, almost shyly.  
  
“Will I see you tomorrow?”

Hannibal’s lips parted. For a second, he appeared lost.

“Of course. Your standing time?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [WeConqueratDawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weconqueratdawn/pseuds/weconqueratdawn) thank you, thank you for editing! I appreciate your help so much, you have no idea.

**X**

“Good evening,” Hannibal said, warmly. “Please come in.”

Will rose, following Hannibal into his office. He threw his bag down on the couch before roaming around the room. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on his back, watching.

He settled against the hard edge of Hannibal’s desk, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Been working on finding similarities between Miriam’s body and the John Doe from yesterday most of the day,” he said. He rubbed aimlessly at his face, an itch that wasn’t really there. “Not sure where to start.”

“Perhaps by starting differently than we have done in the past. Our conversations need not be centered on workplace frustrations.”

“What else is there?” Will asked, skeptical.

“You could try talking to me as you would a friend.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“Alana Bloom considers herself your friend.”

Will thought of her, the sweet rose scent of her perfume and the cloying concern underneath. 

“She is -- but she’s human. She doesn't understand me,” Will said. “So she pities.”

Hannibal tilted his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Having a better understanding of why people do what they do doesn’t make it any easier to socialize.”

“Is it easy for you?” Will asked.

“I manage.”

Will shook his head. “That also isn’t very easy for me.”

“On the contrary, I think you are rather remarkably skilled at keeping others at bay. It’s a coping mechanism in its own way.”

“If you want to call that a skill.”

“You have no pack to force you to do otherwise.”

“No, I don’t,” Will said.

Hannibal steepled his fingers. “Why do you turn from the comfort of your own kind?”

Will frowned. He pushed off of Hannibal’s desk. This time he chose a real seat, the one opposite Hannibal. He sagged into the soft padding with a sigh, head tilted back.

“My own kind is clingy and overbearing -- obsessed with rule and order. I think we both know I have enough voices in my head.”

Hannibal chuckled. “In the days of old, the kin of the wolf had no choice. Join or be killed.”

“I’d rather die.”

“I wouldn’t have let you.”

Will blinked, looking down from the ceiling. Hannibal was serious. He leaned forward in his seat, eyes boring into Will.

“How were you changed?” he asked.

Will flinched. “Now you want to know.”

“If you still want to share.”

“I was a cop in New Orleans, mostly violent crime. A lot of drug enforcement. Some homicide.”

“You were good at it.”

Will glanced down at his scuffed shoes. Even when was a human, part of the police force, he hadn’t been normal. Blood and death had always _nourished_ him, even before the addition of an appetite for raw steak.

“I was good at my job but it didn't matter. People were still died on my watch, innocent women mostly.”

“What happened?”

Will shrugged. “Every month on the full moon, we got a lycanthrope victim. Couldn’t find the biter either -- but the bite clearly matched a wolf’s. There was no traceable motive or pattern to the location where the victims were found. We always got to the victims too late to give them the L-antidote so none of them ever survived the bite long enough to help us ID who hurt them.”

“Until you.”

Will closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“How did you find this killer?”

The memory unraveled like a spool of thread, twined with the smell of mold and spilled liquor. He still remembered driving around the coiled labyrinth of New Orleans streets, though it seemed long ago now. Will had been so young, drawn to the syrupy, choked scent of a werewolf’s chaos, his need for a partner, even as Will had struggled to control himself, his own specific brand of hunger.

“I hunted him,” Will said, simply.

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth twitched up. “And he hunted you.”

“He was trying to find a mate. And when the women kept dying, he decided to try his luck with me.”

“What was it like?”

“Excruciating.”

Matthew Brown had only bit him once, but as a beast, his jaws had been large enough to crack three of Will’s bones.

At the time, he had been walking his dogs into the Jean Lafitte park. It was just past dusk, his boots already sticking to the muddy, wet earth. He remembered yelling at the dogs to run, even as an eerie calm fell over him. The creature had been watching him in the dark. He knew why it waited. Then, it lunged.

“You lived,” Hannibal said, almost too gently.

“Yeah,” Will muttered. “Met Jack not too long after.”

He remembered Jack coming into his hospital room, hat in his hands. The smell of the swamp where Will had been attacked hung heavy on his coat.

“I assume Matthew Brown was a prime candidate for Jack’s Evil Minds Museum.”

“Matthew Brown wasn't evil.”

“He was a killer.”

“He was dominated by instinct.”

“You were curious about him. You had the opportunity to shoot to kill but you did not.”

“You read the report,” Will said, then winced because the words sounded every bit an accusation.

“I am afraid Jack sent the file to me without telling me what it was.”

“Of course he did. And I’d say you just couldn't help yourself but I know you're better than that.”

“Instinct rules us all, Will.”

“I'm beginning to think you're less my paddle and more a tube of glue that Jack uses to repair broken mugs.”

Something flickered in Hannibal’s eyes, but his face remained inscrutable. “Jack's hunt for justice has never concerned me. It seems more an outlet for his obsessive-compulsive nature.”

“Wow. So much for vampires sticking together.”

“Publically, they do. Instinctively, vampires work best when they're helping themselves.”

Will smiled crookedly. “But you'll help me. You want to help me.”

“Yes, I do,” Hannibal said. “Though I don’t like the price it exacts.”

“I know it's not Jack’s altruism that's paying for these… conversations. But I can't afford you otherwise.”

“I’m not referring to those costs. Money is not a concern, abandonment is.”

“Jack hasn't abandoned me.”

“Jack gave you his word he would protect your headspace, yet he leaves you to your mental devices. He offers you only enough support to keep you ticking.”

“I can handle it.”

“You don’t look well, Will,” Hannibal said. “You can’t work all hours of the day and night. Your change is soon but Jack does not acknowledge it.”

“I think -- he wants to help me.”

“Does he?”

“He’s just frustrated. His trainee was murdered and we have no clues, no answers. It’s hard for me to sleep too, knowing that.”

“Is that all that keeps you up?”

Will looked at Hannibal. He was a source of his insomnia just as much as Jack was. Will shook his head, mute.

“It must be even more difficult then, knowing the killer Jack seeks has struck again.”

Yes. The body in the bathtub, the wet, bloody stitches still bothered Will, but differently than Cassie Boyle or Miriam Lass. What unsettled him the most was how similar it seemed to a drug deal gone bad -- almost incidental.

“It’s not the same guy.”

“The victims were all brutalized,” Hannibal reminded him. “What was the brutalization hiding?”

Will tried to see the link between the three bodies. There was only one true tie. “Careful, surgical removal and preservation of vital organs.”

“Valuable organs,” Hannibal suggested.

The words snared in Will’s mind. “Organ harvesters?”

“Jack Crawford’s looking for a serial killer he can’t seem to catch. It’s a brilliant diversion.”

“That doesn’t explain Miriam Lass or Cassie Boyle,” Will said, stubbornly. “But I could believe it for the man we found in the tub.”

As crazy as the idea was, it somehow made sense. Organ donation was incredibly lucrative. It certainly didn’t fall under the BAU’s jurisdiction but Will didn’t believe for a second that Jack was going to let this go.

Hannibal gave him an appraising glance. “I believe our time is up for today. But I will see you Monday?”

“Jack’s orders?”

“No,” Hannibal said. “Yours.”

Will grinned, feeling warmth in his face. “Okay, fine.”

**X**

He drove to Culpeper on Saturday, alone this time. Jack had asked him to do whatever he could to find Miriam Lass’ killer. What surprised Will was how much he wanted to do it -- how high he wanted to jump.

Jack’s aura wasn’t any easier to read but Will understood enough to know his desperation was somehow rubbing off on him. Revisiting Miriam’s house might unlock emotions Will had missed the first time. It was unlikely without a body but he was willing to try, even if he was also afraid that it would somehow work.

He left just a little after the sun came up, popping two aspirin dry as he walked outside to the car. He hadn’t slept much but the dogs had at least gotten a generous walk. They gathered around the windows to watch his car back up down the driveway.

Once in Culpeper, he headed straight to Miriam’s house. There was still yellow crime scene tape across the porch though he doubted there was still ongoing police activity inside. He knew how Jack’s team worked -- they bagged anything of interest, leaving the local PD to pick up only the remaining fragments. He grabbed his badge on the lanyard, just in case, then his glasses. He made his way across the overgrown lawn once more.

It was only when he was inside that he realized what a mistake his trip was. The air felt off, dusty and thick. Miriam’s house was a shell -- little more than a dried up husk where someone had once existed. The few books he had noticed on the shelves were all gone, probably stacked on some intern’s desk in Quantico. Even the blood stains on the living room wall seemed older, as though years had passed without Will’s knowing. He trudged upstairs to the bedroom, finding it in disarray, dresser drawers thrown out, clothes artlessly tossed around the room.

Will sat on the bed for a long moment, staring at the faded, edges of wallpaper that he guessed Miriam Lass had never chosen for herself.

She was completely gone. 

Something unfurled, hot and tight and aching in his stomach. Resentment at the way Miriam had been abandoned by Jack, left to spoil in a town that would never be her home. And something else festered with it, unnameable, when he remembered the strange tranquility on her face after she had died.

His shoulders slumped in. There was nothing to take -- for Jack, or for himself.

He headed back to his car. The sun had come up since he had gone inside. The brightness of it was surreal. He did a double take at his watch -- it was nearly noon and hard to accept that he had been inside the house so long. As he fumbled for his car keys, a breeze stirred the bushes below Miriam’s porch, bringing with it an overly ripe honeysuckle scent. He wrinkled his nose.

The creaking voice of an elderly lady stopped him as he opened the door to his car.

“You vultures gettin’ tired yet?”

He spun. A woman stood still on the sidewalk, watching him like an eagle behind the thick lenses of her prescription sunglasses. She appeared to be in her 70s, grey hair combed neatly and tucked behind her ears.

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. I don’t like your kind coming here.”

Will’s face hardened. “My kind?”

The woman waved her hand dismissively towards the badge still on his chest. “Look in a mirror! Damn ghoul is what you are. You don’t stop, do you.”

“I’m sorry m’am but--”

“You never gave that woman peace! You ran her into the grave!”

“Miriam Lass was murdered by an unknown assailant.”

“How she died, that was a mercy,” the woman said stubbornly, with complete conviction. “I used to watch her sitting on the porch, whispering to herself.”

“Did you --” his breath caught. “See someone come into her house the night she died? Anyone suspicious?”

“Young man, I already gave my interview,” she spat. “Police -- they’re all the same.”

She stomped off, digging into her pocket for her cell phone.

Will wondered how many angry neighbors were about to amass due to an all-caps text message. He had to get out of there.

He turned to his car, keys in the door. Movement reflected in the glass caught his eye. A flash of red.

_Fuck._

The honeysuckle.

He shoved his keys back in his pocket, taking long strides to the overgrown hedges below Miriam’s porch.

“Get what you wanted?” he snapped.

A young woman in her 20s emerged from the bushes, shooting him a sheepish smile. She wore all black but her curls protruded, vibrant out of her black cap -- even with multiple leaves caught in the strands.

“I got something,” she said, raising a brow. “How does it feel to be hated? Can I get a reaction shot?”

Before he could dignify that with a response, she lifted the large camera she held and snapped a photo.

He looked her over with distaste.

“Freddie Lounds, I presume.”

“Special agent Will Graham. It is special, right? Such an interesting euphemism for those who can’t get past the FBI’s screening process.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, creating a thin approximation of a barrier between them. “How did you know I was here?”

“I don’t reveal my sources,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. The scent of her florid perfume made Will’s nostrils flare.

“All those research _skills_ and you bought wolfsbane from a hack, Miss Lounds. I admit it’s irritating, but it won’t save you from a werewolf.”

Freddie’s eyes got big and round. Her lips trembled. “Do I need to be saved?”

“You tell me,” Will said flatly. “You’re not afraid of me.”

Her pantomime of fear transformed to an amused smirk. She inclined her head, allowing him the point. “Not right now. A beast killed Miriam Lass and Cassie Boyle. Not a man.”

“I’m not a suspect in either of those murders.”

“Maybe you should be,” she volleyed. “They say killers return to the scene of the crime.”

“So does law enforcement.”

“Certain personalities are attracted to certain professions,” she said. “How do you help Jack Crawford? Crawl around like a bloodhound and try to catch scents?”

“Like yours?” He took a step closer, inhaling the air close to her. The taint of wolfsbane made his head throb, but he could smell holly and ivy beneath it, sharp and powerful. Freddie gave him a nervous glance. Her pulse pounded in his ears, the sound of a quick-footed rabbit giving chase. Her fear swirled into him -- an unexpected jolt of white energy.

_Ah._

“Perhaps I should be afraid of you,” he said, slowly. “There was no _source_ to help you find me. You used some sort of tracking spell, didn’t you?” 

“How would I do that exactly?” Freddie asked, tilting her head and giving him an odd smile. 

It took a moment to speak. He was distracted by the quality of her emotions, it was like wrapping his hands around a livewire. “You -- you’re an unregistered witch.” 

Freddie didn’t hesitate. She took a step closer to him, invading the bubble of space he had formed. 

“Report me and I’ll bury you.” 

Will smiled faintly. 

“Keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.” 

“Fine,” she agreed, too quickly. “I didn’t see you sulking around in Culpeper. My lips are sealed.” 

“Deal,” Will said, and then for some reason, he thought of Zeller. The suffocating press of anguish after Will had first lashed out about him telling Freddie about him. Then, the almost nervous way they had kissed. The words came before Will give himself a chance to think them through. 

“And leave Zeller alone. Just stop whatever you’re doing to him.” 

“Doing to him?” Freddie repeated, slowly. 

“Section II love spell,” Will said. “Unethical for most witches, even ones like you.” 

Freddie looked startled, then she laughed, incredulous. “I didn’t cast a love spell on Brian.” 

“You just plain used him then." 

Freddie narrowed her eyes, her chin lifted. “Yeah. And it was easy. You do know he hates you, right?” 

Will smiled mockingly. _Or something_. 

Freddie stared uncertainly at him. “Did he say something about me?” 

“I am not giving you relationship advice.” 

“That’s good, considering you don’t seem to have much experience in that department,” she said archly. “Last time I spoke to Brian he went nuclear, because of ... _you_ actually.” 

A shadow passed over Freddie’s face, Will breathed it in, almost unconsciously. Freddie’s emotions flowed into him, strong enough to make him wince. 

“You felt bad. You didn’t mean to lead him on,” Will said. 

Freddie blinked, momentarily speechless. “How do you know how I felt?” She looked at Will as if she had never seen him before. Then, recognition dawned on her face. “You have witch blood.” 

“I’m not a witch.” 

Freddie frowned deeply. “You’re clairvoyant,” she said, but it was a question. “That’s why you’re at the BAU?” 

Will didn’t argue. It would only arouse more suspicions, more tracking spells to other crime scenes. Better to let her think that then give her any other ideas about his true nature. 

“You should get tested,” she said. “There are non-registered clinics -- people who can help -- people that aren’t Jack Crawford.” 

“I’m fine. I have someone,” he said, defensively. 

Freddie shook her head, smiling almost condescendingly. “Aww, sweetie, you really think that’s going to last?” 

__

**X**

He went home to take the dogs out. They ran in the fields while he attempted to work on some boat parts out on the porch. It felt good to get his hands dirty, to focus on something he could fix.

It was nearly five p.m., when he forced himself to eat, an old packet of oatmeal so his stomach would stop grumbling. Jack called a little after that.

“What happened in Culpeper? See anything new?”

Will frowned. He had been rinsing out the gummy remains of his oatmeal from his bowl. He finished filling it with hot water, towel drying his hands on an old rag. “No,” he said. “I would’ve called you.”

“You should’ve,” Jack said, irritated. “Better than reading about it in TattleCrime.”

“What?”

“Lounds just posted a new article. A hell of a lot nicer than her last one,” Jack huffed. 

“What did she write about me?”

“You weren’t even named but it’s easy enough for someone in the know to read between the lines. How did you get on her good side?”

“She has a good side?”

“Touche.”

“What did she write then? Click-bait headline, gruesome yet poetic details about the blood stains on the walls?”

“You got it. Pretty generic for her. But if it bleeds it leads, I suppose. She came up with a name for Cassie Boyle and Miriam’s killer while she was at it,” he snorted. “ ‘The Ripper.’ I’m not going to worry about it. Let her write what she wants. But in the future, if you’re going lone wolf, just call me so I don’t read about it from the press.”

“Fine,” Will said, automatically. His mind was already elsewhere. _The Ripper_. The moniker was little more than smoke and mirrors. On par with the Evil Minds Museum. Freddie had used what would sell. It was askew from Will’s own view of the murders. A killer who thought in abstract, contrasting pigments and dizzying angles. The symmetry of a body poised on antlers, a heart outstretched. 

_Gifts._

“Did you see Dr. Lecter yesterday?”

Will blinked. 

“Yes.”

“Did you talk about the case?”

“A little,” Will said. “Didn't he give you the play by play?”

“No. Not anymore. Something about respecting your privacy.”

Will traced the edge of his now clean bowl, setting it aside. He changed the subject. 

“We’re going to need to see what kind of active cases the FBI has on the organ black market for suspects for our John Doe. Any former doctors, any revoked medical licenses that seem suspicious.”

“Good idea,” Jack said. “Keep seeing Dr. Lecter. And keep going to Culpeper if it helps you think of anything that might help us with Miriam.”

“My change is next week.”

“So take a day off,” Jack said. “Then get back to work.”

**X**

Still feeling restless after Jack's call, Will drove over to the BAU. He didn't want to risk sleepwalking again. It was better to work himself into exhaustion. The lab was empty, the only lights that came on were the fluorescent motion sensors.

He inspected the wall of freezers. Miriam was still inside. So was the John Doe from Annapolis. He wanted to look at both of their cuts again.

He went over to the sink and got the water hot as it could get. He pumped soap into his hands, washing the last of the motor grease stains away. Gray, soapy foam collected over the stainless steel drain, swirling down impossibly slow. His hands were turning pink.

“What are you doing here?”

Will startled. Zeller had just swiped in. He still held his badge up, surprised as Will was.

“I could ask you the same.”

“Had some work to do. Jack mentioned your idea about organ harvesting,” he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves enough to put on a pair of gloves. “It’s -- an interesting theory.”

Will cleared his throat, his voice was surprisingly rough. “You still think the same person who did this killed Miriam Lass?”

“No,” Zeller admitted. “Not anymore. Miriam Lass was done clean. This was a mess. I guess I had to take a few steps back before I could see it.”

He took a step closer, raising his brows at Will.

“How long have you been here anyway?”

“Just got here,” Will began, but then he looked up at the clock and frowned. It was either noon or midnight. Neither of which was good. “I think.”

“You think?”

Will looked down at his clothes. They were subtly different from the clothes he had put on that morning. His shirt was now green instead of blue. Something about it made his heart pound, so violently he felt unsteady. 

“I need -- to go home,” Will said. He pushed his hair back from his face, back from the clammy coolness of his forehead.

“Sit down for a second,” Zeller said. He made another move towards Will, but Will took a step back.

“No,” he said. “I’m fine. See you tomorrow.”

**X**

_Just get to the car. Keep your head down._

_Sanctuary._

The blunt edges of his nails clawed at his forearms.

He counted the steps to the door, another twenty to his car. He jabbed the lock button behind him.

A sound was bubbling in his throat. Festering. It felt like a scream, or a howl. His swallows were repetitive little clicks into the bone dry heat of his mouth. But he felt wet, impossibly so. It was his shirt, clinging to his back like a second skin. He wanted to get his claws in and tear, rip the seam of his clothes to the seam of his flesh. 

The shivers kept coming. His beast was trying to get out. He wanted it to get out. He had never had change sickness this bad before, though a few doctors had warned him how high the incidence rate was for wolves without a pack.

If he couldn’t calm down, he could die. Did he care? If the beast wanted to turn him inside out? Something was ringing. Over and over. An alarm? No. His cell phone, pressed against his ear. He was calling someone.

“Will.”

He sank into his car seat, unable to stop his soft whine.

“Hannibal,” he managed. “Need help. Change sickness.”

“Where are you?” Hannibal asked, sharply.

“BAU.”

Hannibal cursed. For a moment, Will thought he heard crying in the background. 

“I’ll have to help you over the phone.” Hannibal said. “Tell me what happened.”

“Time loss. Feel-- feel feverish. Something, wrong with me.” 

“Does this happen often?”

“N-no,” Will panted, fingers digging into the bones of his knees. “Hasn't happened since the year I got infected.”

“Your body is expecting a traumatic transformation when the moon rises. Something has changed,” Hannibal mused.

“Always hurts when I change. Where are you?”

Will heard a crinkling sound, possibly plastic.

“I’m outside. If I could be there with you, I would.”

“Hannibal…”

“Breathe with me. One after the other.”

He could hear the sound of Hannibal’s breath, tinny on the other side, through the mic of his phone. Will knew any breathing Hannibal did was instinctual, as it was unnecessary for a vampire. Some of them had even trained themselves not to do it at all. 

“Good,” Hannibal soothed. “Now very carefully put your head down between your legs.” 

Will did as he was told, phone still pressed against the shell of his ear, hard plastic cutting into his knee. 

“I need-- need.”

“What, Will? Tell me.”

He gritted his teeth. Words, impossibly, escaped.

“Take my mind off of it. Tell me something -- tell me a story -- about you. When you were human.”

He couldn't see Hannibal but he imagined him pause, hands stilling.

“Some memories will always be locked away.”

Will exhaled again, breath warm against his palm. “Please.”

There was a long silence. For a terrible moment, Will thought their call had been dropped, or worse.

“I had a younger sister,” Hannibal said then, almost hesitating. “More sprite than sibling, really. Her name was Mischa. She loved fairy tales, mermaids and water goblins. The moon was what really captured her heart. She gazed at it every night, by her bedroom window. ‘Look Hannibal,’ she would say, ‘the moon is lying on its tummy.’”

Will laughed. The small motion hurt his ribs. He tried to imagine Mischa’s joy. It made him feel steadier, somehow. Lost in another time. 

He was a small boy, water sloshing against his rubber waders. His line made a smooth arc after he released his fly. His father stood silent beside him, waiting. The moon was full, a bright bulb of white gold, luminescent in the dark. Better to catch the diurnal fish, his dad said. _They like the moon, Willy._

“I always thought the moon looked like a sad man,” Will said. “Even before I was bitten.”

“Interesting,” Hannibal said. “We could discuss that next time we're together.”

Will groaned, brought back to the small, cramped space of his car. “No. No time. I need to find The Ripper.”

“Patience,” Hannibal said. “You will.” 

“I, think, maybe, what if I’m afraid to?” 

Hannibal paused on the other side. “Don’t think of that now,” he said, finally. 

Will laughed. His hands still had a slight tremor. “What should I think about?”

“Think about breathing. Breathe in through your nose; hold it for a few seconds, and then exhale, from your mouth. One breath, slowly, one after the other. Each breath you take will help you clear your mind. Help transport you to your safest place. Where there is no fear.”

Will closed his eyes. “My home.”

“Tell me.”

He could feel blades of grass swaying across his ankles as his dogs flew past past him, yipping playfully. Hannibal was there, watching him. Behind them was Will’s house, a sentinel in the dark. 

“Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my house and walk across the flat fields,” he said, quietly. “When I look back from a distance, my house is like a boat at sea. That’s the only time I feel safe.”

With the admission, tension roiled out of him -- like being wrung out to dry. 

He was still quivering in his car seat, utterly exhausted when he opened his eyes. But his hands were no longer shaking. He looked down. The tips of his fingers were pink and human, not the black claws of the wolf he had imagined, only minutes before. 

“Pretend you’re there,” Hannibal said. “In the fields. You see your house now.”

“Yes.”

“You’re far from the shores of your nightmares, the dark waters.”

Slowly, Will pulled himself up from between his legs, sighing heavily from his nose.

“Better now?” Hannibal asked.

“Yes,” Will said. “I think. Mostly embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Hannibal said. “You’re under a lot of pressure. But you have not broken.”

“Not yet,” Will said. He didn’t laugh. 

“Go home and rest,” Hannibal suggested. “Save yourself from Jack’s shores for one more night.”  
Will rubbed his hand over his eyes, blinking until the mostly-empty parking lot of the BAU came into focus.

“That sounds like a really good idea,” he said. 

“Will you be okay to drive yourself home?”

He put his keys in the ignition, testing the theory. The engine rattled to life. 

“As long as no one makes me angry.”

“You’ll call me again if the change sickness returns,” Hannibal insisted. 

If it was anyone else, Will would have given another sarcastic response. Hannibal was different. 

“I promise,” Will said. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal said, softly. Will felt an answering heat in his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. _Ridiculous._

The call ended and Will started the drive home. He was already feeling much better. Still, he collapsed face first into his bed almost as soon as he was inside -- his pack filled up the spaces beside him with their warmth.

**X**

It was later that night when one of the dogs growled. Then another. Trixie, his smallest. The little hairs on Will’s arms stood up but his eyes remained stubbornly closed. Sleep was becoming elusive as the moon grew full. He mumbled under his breath, legs twitching under the worn sheet he had pulled over them before falling asleep.

“‘S okay,” he said. He buried his head into the pillow, but it was too late. He was more alert than not. The dogs wanted to investigate, and so did he.

Will rose from his bed, unsteady. His pack followed him, curious noses sliding against his knees.

Winston was sitting by the front door and tilted his head as Will passed by.

“Need to go outside, boy?”

Winston wagged his tail. Will opened the door and the dogs rushed out into the fields. The night air was crisp and cool. Too cold to go out with his pack, not without a jacket. He almost turned to go back inside, but then paused, frowning. The smell of meat, fresh meat, was unmistakable. Roast chicken, to be exact. Will looked down. A few inches from the threshold of his home was a large, silver canteen. He lifted it to his face to inhale the aroma. 

Chicken noodle soup. Or so he thought. He could also smell fresh ginger and berries. His stomach grumbled, answer enough.

There was a note, too.

_Dear Will,_

_I did not want to disturb your sleep but I imagine you will be rather hungry upon waking. I hope you enjoy the soup._

_Hannibal_

Will grinned, clutching the note tight enough to wrinkle the paper. He scanned the horizon for Hannibal’s car but his driveway was clear. He wished he hadn’t been asleep. Then he flushed, wondering if Hannibal had looked through the window, had seen him in bed. He must’ve.

He called his dogs back, filling up their bowls with kibble once they were all back inside. In the kitchen, he found a large bowl, high up in one of his cabinets. He poured the contents of Hannibal’s canteen in. The broth was still steaming.

The soup went down fast, sweet and gammy flavors lingering on his tongue. Once he had finished the dark slivers of chicken meat, he tipped his head back to drain the amber-colored broth, uncaring at the juices that ran down the side of his mouth. 

His phone rang. 

Jack. His stomach was full, at least. 

He answered it. 

“Where are you?” Jack demanded.

Will frowned. He scooped up his now empty bowl and left it in the kitchen sink.

“Home,” he said. “Why?”

“We have another body. I need you to come take a look. Alone.”

**X**

An hour later, Will was in Woodbridge, straight to the address Jack had texted.

The house was small, with a well kept yard. It spoke to a certain fastidiousness about the owner. Police cars had pulled alongside the house. The body was likely in the back yard.

He checked his watch. Almost midnight. The temperature had dropped at least five degrees on the drive too. Outside, his breath frosted the air, ghost like. Though he didn’t look up, he could see the moon’s reflection in his glasses -- heavy and swollen, promising. 

He trudged slowly towards the back side of the house. It would normally be easier to see in the night so close to his change but the bright portable lighting around the yard made his vision dilate, momentarily freezing him.

“Will. What are you doing?”

His eyes adjusted to Jack blocking his way, frowning. 

“Stop dawdling,” he said. “We only have a few hours.”

Will forced himself forward, even though his legs threatened to bolt the other way. Jack’s warning could only mean one thing. _Vampire._

Normally, vampires sealed the scene themselves when one of their own kind met their second death. Will being invited, even by Jack, was highly unusual.

Vampires took care of their own. 

Will took off his glasses only when he saw the indistinct outline of the body. The vampires standing closest to the corpse didn’t back off until Jack waved them away. Will’s mind was filled with the heavy, oppressing buzz of their thoughts. 

“I need space,” he whispered.

Jack looked at him for a long moment until he turned to the other vampires.

“Everyone to the front of the house, until I say.”

There were some grumbles but they listened. It was just Jack and Will, and the body, under the light of the gibbous moon. He thought of Hannibal and his sister. The little girl with her knees to her chest at the window, looking up at the night sky. He wandered if she liked when the moon was hump-backed.

“What do you see, Will?” 

He shook thoughts of Hannibal aside, as though they were drops of rain that could be discarded. 

He forced himself to focus on the body, to see his face. 

He remembered. The snap of fangs. Eldon Stammet’s pathetic whimper. The vampire about to snap. 

_Morris._ The features were clear enough, the pale face and haughty nose. His blonde hair seemed white under the halo of LED light. 

“I know him.”

Jack snorted. “Yes, you do.”

Will turned to Jack with wide eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack shook his head. “Focus.”

Frowning, Will trudged forward, his sneaker only an inch from Morris’ knee.

Morris’ legs were akimbo. He looked like a waxy broken doll and there was a cell phone in his hand, of all things. His other hand was clutched over his heart. His shirt was soaked in blood.

“His heart?” Will asked, thinking of Miriam.

“Gone.”

Will swallowed, nodding. 

“He was exsanguinated. Just like Miriam.” 

The blood that had been drained from Morris pooled around him, forming a perfect circle over twigs and leaves. Will puzzled over that. A circle, as a symbol, could have many different meanings. What did it mean for the killer? The cycle of time? Union? _Wholeness?_

“Still think another supernatural did this? Vampires don't drain vampires, not even fledglings,” Jack said. Resentment was clear in the tone of his voice. 

“This one doesn’t have those kind of rules,” Will said. “Morris is beneath him. He’s mocking him.”

“Why would he do that?” Jack asked sharply. 

“To show his ... commitment.” 

Jack huffed. “To what?”

Will twitched, agitated somehow, by the question. “I don’t know.” 

“This one took the kidney and the heart. Is he working with the same killer from Annapolis?” 

No, was Will’s first thought. Even with matching missing organs, the bodies represented very different crimes. 

There were no emotions for him to glean with his parasitism here, unsurprisingly. Whatever feeling Will had felt from Morris the one time at the BAU must have been a fluke. The pain Morris had died with was only present in the twisted grimace of his mouth, a lost secret between him and his killer. 

There was nothing of the killer either. Will didn’t have to ask Jack to know they hadn’t found anything, no evidence or clues.

Morris hadn’t been dead for long either. Maybe a few hours. Sometimes it was hard to tell with vampires. Either way they would be ash in the morning, having met their second death.

The timeline bothered Will. Morris could’ve been killed when he was asleep. Or even during the time earlier in the day, when he had no idea where he was. His frown deepened the lines in his forehead. 

“Is there a connection?” Jack pushed. _Did you do this?_

Will looked up, startled by the accusation. Jack was staring at him intently. It took him a moment to realize that Jack’s second question hadn’t been asked out loud. Will had _read_ him. Plucked his thought from the air like a fallen feather. Should’ve been impossible, even for someone with his unique set of skills.

Jack was wondering if Will had killed Morris. It would make sense. Will had anger issues, self control _lapses_ and Morris had attacked him in front of an audience. 

The half-digested soup in his stomach churned, threatening to come back up again. 

Will had no good defense, not if Jack really suspected him. There were hours missing from his day today and yesterday. He remembered standing at the sink at the BAU lab, washing his hands. The water had felt warm over his fingers, his wrists. How long had he stood there? The soap, what color had it been? Red?

He was strong enough to kill Morris, as a shifter. Few others would be. To kill a vampire you had to eviscerate them -- behead them to be certain. Will looked down again at the dead vampire. Morris also hadn’t been killed here, in the small yard behind his house. This had been for display. The killer had taken his time, removing the heart, possibly in the kitchen. Morris had been dragged here, after. Not for subpar medical attention, like the body in the Annapolis hotel. The kidney and heart would have been removed while Morris was still alive. Expertly. Morris would have been kept alive as long as possible. That took a certain set of skills as well. Medical skills. 

_First, do no harm._

In that, Morris’ killer was fundamentally different from the organ snatcher. 

“He’s a fledgling.”

Jack breathed out through his nose, reflexively. 

“What? Who -- Morris? Yes, I know that,” he said, impatient.

“No, the person who killed the John Doe in Annapolis.”

“Why would a vampire take the organs, Will? We aren’t cannibals.”

“No, I didn’t mean… A fledgling _doctor._ We’re looking at EMS, maybe med school students.” 

Jack squinted. “How exactly do you know that? Give me something.”

“Whoever killed Morris was showing the opposite of what Annapolis showed us. This killer is two things the other wasn’t.”

“I'm listening.”

“Whoever did this? He's highly skilled, and in this case, not interested in saving life. This wasn't a cardiac massage. This is… a display of commitment.”

Jack wavered. Morris stared at them with glassy, white eyes. 

Then Jack pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket. Will listened to his terse call to Katz. More than likely he was waking her up, at this hour. Jack conveyed Will’s belief that the Annapolis killer was potentially EMS. Will could hear Katz on the other line. 

“If he had access, he would've likely used a response vehicle to transport the victim and any organs he took. Easier that way.”

“Currently my hands are tied,” Jack said. “Can you follow this for me?”

“You got it. If there’s anything off with any ambulances in the logs, I’ll find it,” she said.

“Good,” Jack said. “Call me as soon as you do.”

As he hung up on Katz, he held up one finger to Will.

“You stay close. I might need you.”

Will scowled.

“Do I have your _permission_ to go back to the BAU?” he asked sarcastically. “I'm getting behind in my lecture preparation. What you actually hired me for.”

Jack gave Will a hard look, one tinged with suspicion. “Stay there until you talk to me and don’t tell anyone about Morris. Not yet.”

**X**

Jack didn’t end up coming into the office until the sun was up. Will guessed Morris’ body was gone -- disintegrated. It didn’t take much. The first rays of the sun would take care of his hair and nails, then the long, narrow features of his face. In the end, all that was left of a dead vampire was a pile of black ash once the sun came up.

Morris’ heart and kidney though, that would've survived, if the killer had taken the appropriate steps. Will was sure he had. He wasn’t sloppy. 

Eventually Jack released him to go home, after Katz had come in. 

Will spent the early hours of the morning trying to right himself from Jack's unspoken accusation. Fishing at the creek didn't help as much as he hoped but Hannibal's note was still perched on his kitchen counter when he came home.

He liked that Hannibal had cooked for him, though it seemed another indication that their doctor-patient relationship was skidding off the rails. If feeding another person was intimate, spilling your guts in the throes of heat sickness went possibly beyond the pale. 

Tasteless.

Yet Hannibal had spilled something of himself as well. 

Mischa. She was a secret. A locked room. Hannibal was older than any other vampire Will had ever met but there was an ache that had not faded. There was genuine pain -- raw and alive. 

Will wanted to soothe it as much as he wanted -- needed to feel all of it. To lay everything bare. 

In the hot, damp steam of his shower he allowed himself the fantasy. This time, inviting Hannibal inside, when he had come with his soup and his letter.

Easy then. To look into his eyes, lowering them at just the right moment. His cock was getting hard.

“Please.”

Hannibal wouldn’t deny him. All this time, seeking Will out, indulging him. Fuck. Chasing him. What if Will stopped running? 

He stroked himself a little faster. 

What if he gave in? Randall would be gone. Will wouldn’t have to ask. What else would Hannibal do for him? He jerked his cock harder, his grip nearly painful.

They could kiss. A desperate sound escaped from his mouth. 

He came, dizzyingly fast, thinking of Hannibal’s lips on his.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).


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